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EDITORS  AND  ARTISTS  EDITION 

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'CimotblDuJi5bt,D.D.,LLD. 
Richard  Y2er)v^Sloddar^ 

ur  Ricbii}ot)ii  lBar5h,^.B. 

-  Paul  va»)  Dvke.;D.D. 


^yil.^altprl)unne  (Jompanil 


Copyright,  1900, 
By  the  colonial  PRESS. 


HfcH^^  «^-^-'- 


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SPECIAL    INTRODUCTION 

THE  earliest  American  essayists  were  the  clergymen. 
Those  first  days  of  the  great  republic  were  religious 
days.  And  although  the  pulpit  was  eminently  spiritual, 
and  fervid,  and  the  devil  was  duly  excoriated,  and  lessons  of 
faith  and  humility  were  inculcated,  yet  those  hour-long  homilies 
were  not  all  theology.  Ethics,  and  manners,  and  social  and 
national  progress  were  discussed  in  sermons,  which  were  in 
reality  well-rounded  essays.  So  that  the  influence  of  the  pulpit 
became  not  only  moral,  but  intellectual  and  even  literary,  as  well. 
And  the  lecLuters  who  came  later,  what  was  their  mission  but  to 
spread  the  influence  of  the  essay?  Apart  from  polemics  and  in 
addition  to  politics  and  partisanship,  they  presented  to  well-filled 
halls  throughout  the  country  essays,  essays,  nothing  but  essays. 
And  now  the  magazines,  which  visit  every  fireside,  continue  the 
cult  and  keep  it  well  apace  with  poetry  and  fiction,  far  surpassing 
the  former  indeed  in  worth  and  quality.  The  essay  then  has  / 
ever  been  near  to  the  American  heart,  has  ever  basfeed  in  public 
favor.  And  from  the  contingencies  of  our  early  days  it  could 
start  full-panoplied  and  well-equipped.  It  had  the  culture  of 
France  and  England  as  a  fulcrum,  and  proceeded  by  main  force 
to  lift  the  taste  of  our  early  citizens  from  the  merely  utilitarian 
and  the  grubbing  commonplace  to  a  conception  of  the  graceful 
and  the  beautiful.  It  was  necessarily  formative  and  educational. 
Its  task  was  premeasured,  foreordered.  Those  among  the  first 
essayists  who  were  not  in  the  pulpit  might  well  have  been,  for 
they  were  ethical  guides  and  pathfinders.  And  the  statesmen 
and  historians  and  poets  who  came  to  swell  the  Hst ;  they  all 
wore  the  robe  of  the  prophet  and  the  teacher,  even  when  dally- 
ing with  lighter  themes.  It  is  well  for  our  literature  that  the  es- 
sayists have  spoken.  For  whether  one  points  to  poetry  or  fic- 
tion or  history  or  theology  or  science,  in  no  category  will  he 
find  an  achievement  of  supremacy  excelling  that  which  the  es- 


X  i  /I  n  'T  o 


iv  SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION 

sayists  h^y?  fl^^^^"^^-  Take  even  the  greatest  exemplars  of  our 
poetry  and  fiction,  Poe  and  Hawthorne,  in  their  lonely  majesty 
of  leadership.  Their  essays  fall  not  far  short  of  their  lyrics  and 
romances.  To  use  a  geographical  metaphor,  Poe's  life  was 
bounded  on  the  north  by  sorrow,  on  the  east  by  poverty,  on  the 
south  by  aspiration  and  on  the  west  by  calumny ;  his  genius  was 
unbounded.  There  are  literary  hyenas  still  prowling  about  his 
grave.  But  his  pensive  brow  wears  the  garland  of  immortality. 
His  soul  was  music  and  his  very  life-blood  was  purest  art.  His 
ear  caught  the  cadences  of  that  higher  harmony  which  poets 
hear  above  the  world's  turmoil.  In  spite  of  detraction  he  is 
safely  enshrined  in  memory  while  poetry  shall  live.  .Young 
poets  will  always  have  tears  and  roses  for  his  grave. 

And  dreamy,  inquisitve  Hawthorne,  probing  and  searching 
the  human  heart!  There  is  the  majesty  of  the  seer  about  him. 
He  takes  one  by  the  hand  and  leads  him  through  enchanted 
palaces  of  art  and  whispers  of  the  mysteries  of  life,  and  discloses 
the  well-springs  of  character  and  motive.  A  favorite  of  the  gods 
was  he,  dwelling  high  upon  Olympus.  Fancy  his  life  at  Salem 
among  those  quiet  folk;  shall  we  call  them  pygmies? 

Bryant's  style  was  pure  and  cold  as  a  rivulet  among  his  native 
hills.  He  was  Nature's  adept,  knowing  the  language  of  flower 
and  field  and  forest,  the  interpreter  of  natural  beauty.  A  sweet, 
unruffied,  high-bred  quietude  possessed  him.  He  had  the 
direct  simpHcity  of  Burns,  with  the  lofty  dignity  of  Wordsworth. 
He  respected  himself  and  his  fellow-man,  and  dwelt  ever  "near 
to  Nature's  heart." 

In  Emerson  the  essay  touched  its  highest  pinnacle.  Here  is  a 
teacher  sent  from  God.  His  influence  upon  the  people  was  in- 
calculable and  still  is  immeasurable.  He  had  a  high  lesson  for 
the  people,  and  he  taught  it.  His  wisdom  was  needed.  His 
exhortative  utterances  helped  to  stimulate  the  plodding  common 
soul  and  raise  it  to  loftier  regions  of  thought  and  action. 
"  Hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star ;  "  there  is  a  dictum  one  could  not 
by  any  chance  forget.  It  burns  into  the  memory  and  becomes  a 
part  of  it.  It  is  not  merely  remembered,  it  is  assimilated,  in- 
corporated, absorbed.  Emerson  was  a  preacher  in  hjs  essays. 
Humanity,  morality,  patriotism,  these' were  his  burdens,  and  he 
bore  them  to  the  end.  He  made  the  rostrum  a  second  pulpit. 
He  made  culture  a  religion.     He  delved  into  the  eternal  verities, 


I 


SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION  V 

id  refined  the  gold  of  thought  for  the  many.     He  threshed  and 
innowed  and  garnered  the  golden  grain  of  pro^jess  and  high 

Inking,  and  gave  it  to  the  people.  To-day  hardly  an  essayist 
^ill  dispute  his  leadership.  His  works  will  remain  a  storehouse 
of  Christian  ethics  and  promptings  to  high  endeavor  and  a  noble 
philosophy. 

"  A  sweet  and  gentle  soul,"  Emerson  called  Longfellow.  To 
be  loved  by  the  young,  ah,  that  is  a  great  thing!  Before  the 
stress  of  the  decades  has  wearied  the  heart  and  dimmed  with 
tears  the  eyes  expectant,  to  be  then  the  chosen  friend  of  youth, 
pure  and  holy  in  its  Heavenly  aspirations  and  its  turnings 
toward  thejightj^  So  is  it  with  Longfellow,  who  sang  in  lute- 
tones,  bard  of  the  gentle,  the  musing,  the  refined.  He  was  not 
sublime,  he  was  more — he  was  human.  The  youth  of  the  future 
will  hold  him  to  their  hearts,  as  it  gladly  does  in  these  current 
days  of  storm  and  stress. 

Readers  of  the  rising  generation  will  never  realize  the  ex- 
traordinary influence  of  ^^§J§^t^e.  Her  cry  was  an  evangel,  a 
clarion-call,  a  battle  hymn.  The  North  and  the  South,  reading 
her  words,  saw  the  camp-fires  afar,  heard  the  tread  of  serried 
columns,  felt  the  onset  of  marshalled  hosts.  Into  forty  lan- 
guages her  book  was  translated.  It  was  a  golden  bugle  sound- 
ing the  charge,  but  its  notes  have  long  since  been  hushed  into 
the  diapason  of  God-given  fraternal  peace,  happy,  forgiving 
national  union  and  joyous  concord. 

Holnies  was  a  born  essayist.  If  Pope  "  lisped  in  numbers,  for 
the  numbers  came,"  so  the  smiling  philosopher  of  the  breakfast- 
table  wrote  essays  as  naturally  as  the  sun  shines  or  th£._T^aters 
flow.  Brilliant  as  ¥~poFt~and"novelist,  able  and  beloved  as  a 
technical  instructor,  yet  it  was  those  cheery,  bonny,  playful 
papers,  filled  wdth  the  keenest  wit  and  deepest  feeling,  recurring 
from  month  to  month,  essays  in  all  but  strict  form,  which  en- 
deared him  to  all  hearts  and  made  him  indeed  an  autocrat. 

"  A  gentleman  of  the  old  school;  "  how  often  do  we  hear  this 
term  misapplied !  But  it  fits  Curtis  as  gracefully  as  the  folds  of  a 
toga  enwrapped  the  form  of  a  Roman  senator.  Here  are  court- 
liness and  stately  ease.  Here  is  urbanity  as  dignified  as  an  old 
court  minuet.  Here  is  a  suggestion  of  the  modern  equivalent 
to  "  rufifs  and  cufifs,  and  farthingales  and  things."  A  sweet  se- 
renity and  perfect  taste  pervade  his  pages,  a  charm  like  the  odor 


vi       .  SPECIAL  INTRODUCTION 

of  lavender  which  lingers  about  an  ancient,  forgotten,  garret- 
hidden  escritoire. 

It  is  difficult  for  the  present  writer  to  speak  of  Whitman.  In 
the  first  place,  it  seems  to  him  something  like  praising  Shake- 
speare, which  appears  not  altogether  a  novel  thing  to  do.  And 
in  the  second  place,  he  realizes  that  the  "  Whitman  cult "  is 
somewhat  in  advance  of  the  times.  But  it  is  his  belief  that  the 
coming  centuries  will  place  Walt  Whitman  high  on  the  list  of 
glorious  names,  the  first  voice  of  a  united,  crystallized,  original 
America,  a  bard  who  sang  democracy,  our  great  citizenship, 
God-love,  and  the  comradeship  of  the  throbbing,  suffering,  hop- 
ing, majestic  human  heart. 


>^^^^j>cc/t/oej2^  ^.  yC't^OUi^AUjL><aJ^X 


7 


ERRATA 

On  page  353,  line  i,  read  whole  body  is  one  sense,  instead 
of  w/io/e  hody  in  one  sense. 


^ 


CONTENTS . 

PACK 

Benjamin  Franklin i 

y^The  Way  to  Wealth 3 

fVMorals  of  Chess li 

William  Ellery  Channing 15 

Self-Culture   17 

Washington  Irving 63 

The  Mutability  of  Literature. 65 

Richard  Henry  Dana^ 75 

Kean's  Acting ^^ 

William  Cullen  Bryant 89 

Essay  on  American  Poetry 91 

William  Hickling  Prescott loi 

Sir  Walter  Scott 103 

George  Bancroft  149 

The  Last  Moments  of  Eminent  Men 151 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson 169 

vCompensation   171 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne   191 

The  Procession  of  Life 193 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow 207 

/Defence  of  Poetry 209 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier 233 

John   Bunyan 235 

Edgar  Allan  Poe 253 

^The  Philosophy  of  Composition 25s 

Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 267 

The  Professor's  Paper 269 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  291 

The  Old  £)ak  of  Andover 293 

John  Lothr/)p  Motley 297 

Peter  the  Great 299 

Henry  David  Thoreau 351 

/Solitude  353 

Edwin  Percy  Whipple 361 

Macaulay   363 

James  Russell  Lowell 379 

Cambridge  Thirty  Years  Ago 381 

vii 


Vlll 


CONTENTS 


J 


Walt  Whitman  4i7 

Preface  to  "Leaves  of  Grass" 4^9 

Francis  Parkman  435 

James  Fenimore  Cooper 437 

Gmrge  William  Curtis 453 

A  Our  Best  Society 455 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING   PAGE 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson      ....  Frontispiece 

Hand-colored  India  proof  reproduced  from  a  painting 

Apollo  Musagetes loo 

Photo-engraving  from  a  marble  statue 

Early  Venetian  Printing 296 

Fac-simile  Design  from  a  Book  printed  at  Venice  in  1487 

Page  from  a  Book  of  Hours 378 

Fac-simile  of  Printing  and  Engraving  in  the  Fifteenth  Century 


THE    WAY    TO    WEALTH 


MORALS    OF    CHESS 


BY 


BENJAMIN    FRANKLIN 


BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN 
1706— 1790 

Benjamin  Franklin  was  a  statesman,  a  scientist,  a  philosopher,  a 
philanthropist,  and  a  man  of  affairs  as  well  as  a  man  of  letters.  In 
each  capacity  he  achieved  something  more  than  ordinary  success.  Of 
a  career  so  many-sided  only  a  brief  summary  can  here  be  given.  He 
was  born  at  Boston  in  1706,  and  was  the  youngest  of  seventeen  children. 
His  father,  a  tallow-chandler,  was  a  practical  man,  but  to  provide  any- 
thing beyond  an  ordinary  school  education  for  his  youngest  son  was  be- 
yond his  means.  Thus  we  find  Franklin  at  the  age  of  twelve  appren- 
ticed to  his  brother  James,  who  printed  and  published  the  Boston 
"  Gazette,"  the  second  newspaper  published  in  America.  At  this  period 
he  was  an  eager  reader,  and  whatever  he  read  impressed  him  deeply, 
especially  a  volume  of  "  The  Spectator,"  which  led  him  to  cultivate 
Addison's  delightful  style.  In  a  short  time  he  began  a  series  of  anony- 
mous contributions  to  his  brother's  paper,  but  the  latter  proving  too  hard 
a  master  he  ran  away  and  went  to  Philadelphia,  where  he  began  life  for 
himself.  A  trip  to  London  followed,  but  he  was  soon  back  in  Phila- 
delphia, and  established  himself  as  a  printer  in  1726. 

Three  years  later  he  became  the  publisher  and  proprietor  of  the 
"  Pennsylvania  Gazette."  For  this  publication  Franklin,  who  was  al- 
most its  sole  contributor,  wrote  a  large  number  of  essays  in  the  Addi- 
sonian vein.  In  1732  he  founded  "  Poor  Richard's  Almanac."  This 
publication  immediately  attained  a  large  circulation,  and  gave  Franklin 
both  fame  and  wealth.  Its  humor  was  genuine  and  irresistible,  but 
what  gave  the  work  its  greatest  popularity  and  its  enduring  fame  was 
the  collection  of  wise  saws  and  homely  proverbs.  While  he  did  not 
claim  entire  originality  for  this  work,  it  is  conceded  that  the  homely 
epigrammatic  form  that  constitutes  its  chief  charm  was  entirely  his 
own.  In  1758,  during  a  period  of  unusual  financial  depression,  Frank- 
lin made  selections  from  this  work,  and  published  them  in  the  form  of 
a  sermon  by  "  Father  Abraham."  This  was  at  once  received  with 
universal  favor,  was  published  in  numerious  editions  in  English,  went 
through  thirty  editions  in  French,  and  was  also  translated  into  many 
other  languages.  It  is  best  known  under  the  title  "  The  Way  to 
Wealth,"  and  is  thoroughly  characteristic  of  Franklin's  style. 

During  this  period  the  many-sidedness  of  Franklin's  activity  was 
amazing.  He  founded  the  Philadelphia  library,  the  first  subscription 
library  in  America ;  was  one  of  the  chief  organizers  of  the  educational 
institution  afterwards  known  as  the  University  of  Pennsylvania;  be- 
came Deputy  Postmaster-General  in  1753,  and  as  such  greatly  im- 
proved the  postal  system  of  the  colonies;  and  finally  made  his  immortal 
discoveries  in  electricity.  The  work  of  Franklin  in  behalf  of  American 
independence  is  a  matter  of  history.  As  early  as  1754  he  proposed  a 
union  of  the  colonies  against  the  French  and  Indians.  From  1757  to 
1775  he  was,  except  for  a  few  months,  the  agent  of  Pennsylvania  in 
England.  From  1776  to  1785  he  represented  the  American  colonies  in 
France,  first  as  the  agent  of  the  revolutionary  government,  later  as 
Minister  of  the  United  States.  His  work  in  this  capacity  was  in  its 
bearing  and  final  results  equalled  only  by  that  of  Washington's  armies. 
He  was  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  the 
treaty  of  alliance  with  France,  and  the  treaty  of  peace.  While  in 
France  he  resumed  literary  work,  and  wrote  for  the  amusement  of  his 
friends  his  charming  "  Bagatelles,"  of  which  "  The  Morals  of  Chess  " 
is  a  good  example.  During  this  period  he  wrote  his  unfinished  "  Au- 
tobiography," the  most  important  of  his  larger  works.  He  continued 
active  and  influential  till  his  death,  in  1790,  at  the  age  of  eighty-four. 

2 


THE  WAY  TO   WEALTH 

COURTEOUS  reader,  I  have  heard  that  nothing  gives  an 
author  so  great  pleasure  as  to  find  his  works  respect- 
fully quoted  by  others.  Judge,  then,  how  much  I  must 
have  been  gratified  by  an  incident  I  am  going  to  relate  to  you. 
I  stopped  my  horse  lately  where  a  great  number  of  people  were 
collected  at  an  auction  of  merchants'  goods.  The  hour  of  the 
sale  not  being  come,  they  were  conversing  on  the  badness  of  the 
times ;  and  one  of  the  company  called  to  a  plain,  clean,  old  man, 
with  white  locks,  "  Pray,  Father  Abraham,  what  think  you  of 
the  times  ?  Will  not  these  heavy  taxes  quite  ruin  the  country  ? 
How  shall  we  ever  be  able  to  pay  them  ?  What  would  you  ad- 
vise us  to  ?  "  Father  Abraham  stood  up  and  replied,  "  If  you 
would  have  my  advice,  I  will  give  it  you  in  short ;  for  ^  A  word 
to  the  wise  is  enough,'  as  Poor  Richard  says."  They  joined  in 
desiring  him  to  speak  his  mind,  and  gathering  round  him,  he 
proceeded  as  follows: 

"  Friends,"  said  he,  "  the  taxes  are  indeed  very  heavy,  and, 
if  those  laid  on  by  the  government  were  the  only  ones  we  had 
to  pay,  we  might  more  easily  discharge  them;  but  we  have 
many  others,  and  much  more  grievous  to  some  of  us.  We  are 
taxed  twice  as  much  by  our  idleness,  three  times  as  much  by 
our  pride,  and  four  times  as  much  by  our  folly ;  and  from  these 
taxes  the  commissioners  cannot  ease  or  deliver  us  by  allowing 
an  abatement.  However,  let  us  hearken  to  good  advice,  and 
something  may  be  done  for  us ; '  God  helps  them  that  help  them- 
selves,' as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  I.  It  would  be  thought  a  hard  government,  that  should 
tax  its  people  one-tenth  part  of  their  time,  to  be  employed  in  its 
service;  but  idleness  taxes  many  of  us  much  more;  sloth,  by 
bringing  on  diseases,  absolutely  shortens  life.  *  Sloth,  like  rust, 
consumes  faster  than  labor  wears ;  while  the  used  key  is  always 
bright,'  as  Poor  Richard  says.     *  But  dost  thou  love  life,  then 

3 


4  FRANKLIN 

do  not  squander  time,  for  that  is  the  stuff  life  is  made  of/  as 
Poor  Richard  says.  How  much  more  than  is  necessary  do  we 
spend  in  sleep,  forgetting,  that  *  The  sleeping  fox  catches  no 
poultry  * ;  and  that  '  There  will  be  sleeping  enough  in  the 
grave,'  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

" '  If  time  be  of  all  things  the  most  precious,  wasting  time 
must  be/  as  Poor  Richard  says,    *  the  greatest  prodigality ' 
since,  as  he  elsewhere  tells  us, '  Lost  time  is  never  found  agam 
and  what  we  call  time  enough,  always  proves  little  enough. 
Let  us  then  up  and  be  doing,  and  doing  to  the  purpose ;  so  by 
diligence  shall  we  do  more  with  less  perplexity.     *  Sloth  makes 
all  things  difficult,  but  industry  all  easy ' ;  and  '  He  that  riseth 
late  must  trot  all  day,  and  shall  scarce  overtake  his  business  at 
night ' ;  while  *  Laziness  travels  so  slowly,  that  Poverty  soon 
overtakes  him.     Drive  thy  business,  let  not  that  drive  thee ' ; 
and    '  Early  to  bed,  and  early  to  rise,  makes  a  man  healthy, 
wealthy,  and  wise,'  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  So  what  signifies  wishing  and  hoping  for  better  times  ?  We 
may  make  these  times  better,  if  we  bestir  ourselves.  '  Industry 
need  not  wish,  and  he  that  lives  upon  hopes  will  die  fasting. 
There  are  no  gains  without  pains ;  then  help,  hands,  for  I  have 
no  lands  ' ;  or,  if  I  have,  they  are  smartly  taxed.  '  He  that  hath 
a  trade  hath  an  estate ;  and  he  that  hath  a  calling,  hath  an  office 
of  profit  and  honor,'  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  but  then  the  trade 
must  be  worked  at,  and  the  calling  followed,  or  neither  the  es- 
tate nor  the  office  will  enable  us  to  pay  our  taxes.  If  we  are 
industrious,  we  shall  never  starve ;  for,  *  At  the  workingman's 
house  hunger  looks  in,  but  dares  not  enter.'  Nor  will  the 
bailiff  or  the  constable  enter,  for  '  Industry  pays  debts,  while 
despair  increaseth  them.'  What  though  you  have  found  no 
treasure,  nor  has  any  rich  relation  left  you  a  legacy,  '  Diligence 
is  the  mother  of  good  luck,  and  God  gives  all  things  to  industry. 
Then  plough  deep  while  sluggards  sleep,  and  you  shall  have 
corn  to  sell  and  to  keep.'  Work  while  it  is  called  to-day,  for 
you  know  not  how  much  you  may  be  hindered  to-morrow. 
*  One  to-day  is  worth  two  to-morrows,'  as  Poor  Richard  says ; 
and  further, '  Never  leave  that  till  to-morrow  which  you  can  do 
to-day.'  If  you  were  a  servant,  would  you  not  be  ashamed  that 
a  good  master  should  catch  you  idle  ?  Are  you  then  your  own 
master?    Be  ashamed  to  catch  yourself  idle,  when  there  is  so 


/ 


THE  WAY  TO  WEALTH  5 

much  to  be  done  for  yourself,  your  family,  your  country,  and 
Your  king  J  Handle  your  tools  without  mittens ;  remember,  that 
^  The"carin  gloves  catches  no  mice,'  as  Poor  Richard  says.     It  N\ 
is  true  there  is  much  to  be  done,  and  perhaps  you  are  weak-   \\ 
handed ;  but  stick  to  it  steadily,  and  you  will  see  great  effects ;    I  j 
for  '  Constant  dropping  wears  away  stones  ' ;  and  *  By  diligence    jr 
j^  patience  the  mouse  ate  in  two  the  cable  ' ;  and  '  Little  strokes  A 
fell  great  oaks.'  V 

"  Methinks  I  hear  some  of  you  say,  *  Must  a  man  afford  him-V 
self  no  leisure  ?  '     I  will  tell  thee,  my  friend,  what  Poor  Richard  \ 
says :  '  Employ  thy  time  well,  if  thou  meanest  to  gain  leisure ; 
and,  since  thou  art  not  sure  of  a  minute,  throw  not  away  an 
hour.'     Leisure  is  time  for  doing  something  useful ;  this  leisure 
the  diligent  man  will  obtain,  but  the  lazy  man  never ;  for  ^  A  life     / 
of  leisure  and  a  life  of  laziness  are  two  things.     Many,  without     / 
labor,  would  live  by  their  wits  only,  but  they  break  for  want  of 
stock ' ;  whereas,  industry  gives  comfort,  and  plenty,  and  re- 
spect.    *  Fly  pleasures,  and  they  will  follow  you.     The  diligent 
spinner  has  a  large  shift ;  and  now  I  have  a  sheep  and  a  cow, 
everybody  bids  me  good  morrow.' 

*'  IL  But  with  our  industry  we  must  likewise  be  steady,  set- 
tled, and  careful,  and  oversee  our  own  affairs,  with  our  own 
eyes,  and  not  trust  too  much  to  others;  for,  as  Poor  Richard 
says, 

*  I  never  saw  an  oft-removed  tree. 
Nor  yet  an  oft-removed  family, 
That  throve  so  well  as  those  that  settled  be.* 

And  again,  '  Three  removes  are  as  bad  as  a  fire ' ;  and  again, 
'  Keep  thy  shop,  and  thy  shop  will  keep  thee ' ;  and  again,  *  If 
you  would  have  your  business  done,  go;  if  not,  send.'  And 
again, 

*  He  that  by  the  plough  would  thrive, 
Himself  must  either  hold  or  drive.' 

And  again,  '  The  eye  of  a  master  will  do  more  work  than  both 
his  hands ' ;  and  again,  '  Want  of  care  does  us  more  damage 
than  want  of  knowledge  ' ;  and  again,  *  Not  to  oversee  workmen 
is  to  leave  them  your  purse  open.'  Trusting  too  much  to  oth- 
ers' care  is  the  ruin  of  many ;  for  *  In  the  affairs  of  this  world 
men  are  saved,  not  by  faith,  but  by  the  want  of  it ' ;  but  a  man's 


6  FRANKLIN 

own  care  is  profitable;  for,  '  If  you  would  have  a  faithful  ser- 
vant, and  one  that  you  like,  serve  yourself.  A  little  neglect  may 
breed  great  mischief ;  for  want  of  a  nail  the  shoe  was  lost ;  for 
want  of  a  shoe  the  horse  was  lost ;  and  for  want  of  a  horse  the 
rider  was  lost,  being  overtaken  and  slain  by  the  enemy ;  all  for 
want  of  a  little  care  about  a  horseshoe  nail.' 

"  III.  So  much  for  industry,  my  friends,  and  attention  to 
one's  own  business ;  but  to  these  we  must  add  frugality,  if  we 
would  make  our  industry  more  certainly  successful.  A  man 
may,  if  he  knows  not  how  to  save  as  he  gets,  keep  his  nose  all 
his  life  to  the  grindston^and  die  not  worth  a  groat  at  last.  *  A 
fat  kitchen  makes  a  lean  will ' ;  and 

*  Many  estates  are  spent  in  the  getting, 
Since  women  for  tea  forsook  spinning  and  knitting, 
And  men  for  punch  forsook  hewing  and  splitting.' 

'  If  you  would  be  wealthy,  think  of  saving  as  well  as  of  getting. 
The  Indies  have  not  made  Spain  rich,  because  her  outgoes  are 
greater  than  her  incomes.' 

"  Away  then  with  your  expensive  follies,  and  you  will  not 
then  have  so  much  cause  to  complain  of  hard  times,  heavy  taxes, 
and  chargeable  families ;  for 

*  Women  and  wine,  game  and  deceit, 
^  Make  the  wealth  small  and  the  want  great.* 

y  And  further,  *  What  maintains  one  vice  would  bring  up  two 

/   children.'     You  may  think,  perhaps,  that  a  little  tea,  or  a  little 

i     punch  now  and  then,  diet  a  little  more  costly,  clothes  a  little 

;      finer,  and  a  little  entertainment  now  and  then,  can  be  no  great 

matter ;  but  remember, '  Many  a  little  makes  a  mickle.'    Beware 

of  little  expenses ;  '  A  small  leak  will  sink  a  great  ship,'  as  Poor 

Richard  says ;  and  again,    '  Who  dainties  love,  shall  beggars 

prove ' ;  and  moreover,  *  Fools  make  feasts,  and  wise  men  eat 

them.' 

"  Here  you  are  all  got  together  at  this  sale  of  fineries  and 
knick-knacks.  You  call  them  goods;  but,  if  you  do  not  take 
care,  they  will  prove  evils  to  some  of  you.  You  expect  they 
will  be  sold  cheap,  and  perhaps  they  may  for  less  than  they  cost ; 
but,  if  you  have  no  occasion  for  them,  they  must  be  dear  to  you. 
Remember  what  Poor  Richard  says :  '  Buy  what  thou  hast  no 


THE   WAY  TO  WEALTH  7 

need  of,  and  ere  long  thou  shalt  sell  thy  necessaries/  And 
again, '  At  a  great  pennyworth  pause  a  while/  He  means,  that 
perhaps  the  cheapness  is  apparent  only,  and  not  real;  or  the 
bargain,  by  straitening  thee  in  thy  business,  may  ^o  thee  more 
harm  than  good.  For  in  another  place  he  says,  '  Many  have 
been  ruined  by  buying  good  pennyworths/  Again,  '  It  is  fool- 
ish to  lay  out  money  in  a  purchase  of  repentance  ' ;  and  yet  this 
folly  is  practised  every  day  at  auctions,  for  want  of  minding 
the  '  Almanac/^  Many  a  one,  for  the  sake  of  finery  on  the 
back,  has  gone  with  a  hungry  belly  and  half-starved  their  fam- 
ilies. '  Silks  and  satins,  scarlet  and  velvets,  put  out  the  kitchen 
fire,'  as  Poor  Richard  says. 

"  These  are  not  the  necessaries  of  life ;  they  can  scarcely  be 
called  the  conveniences ;  and  yet,  only  because  thy  look  pretty, 
how  many  want  to  have  them !  By  these,  and  other  extrava- 
gances, the  genteel  are  reduced  to  poverty,  and  forced  to  borrow 
of  those  whom  they  formerly  despised,  but  who,  through  indus- 
try and  frugality,  have  maintained  their  standing;  in  which 
case  it  appears  plainly,  that '  A  ploughman  on  his  legs  is  higher 
than  a  gentleman  on  his  knees,'  as  Poor  Richard  says.  Per- 
haps they  have  had  a  small  estate  left  them,  which  they  knew 
not  the  getting  of ;  they  think,  *  It  is  day,  and  will  never  be 
night ' ;  that  a  little  to  be  spent  out  of  so  much  is  not  worth 
minding ;  but  '  Always  taking  out  of  the  meal-tub,  and  never 
putting  in,  soon  comes  to  the  bottom,'  as  Poor  Richard  says; 
and  then,  *  When  the  well  is  dry,  they  know  the  worth  of  water/ 
But  this  they  might  have  known  before,  if  they  had  taken  his 
advice.  '  If  you  would  know  the  value  of  money,  go  and  try 
to  borrow  some ;  for  he  that  goes  a-borrowing  goes  a-sorrow- 
ing,'  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  and  indeed  so  does  he  that  lends  to 
such  people,  when  he  goes  to  get  it  in  again.  \  Poor  Dick  further 
advises  and  says, 

*  Fond  pride  of  dress  is  sure  a  very  curse; 
Ere  fancy  you  consult,  consult  your  purse.' 

And  again, '  Pride  is  as  loud  a  beggar  as  Want,  and  a  great  deal 
more  saucy.'     When  you  have  bought  one  fine  thing,  you  must 

» This  refers  to  "  Poor  Richard's  Alma-  was  issued  in  1732  and  published  annually 

nac,"  which  was  published  by  Benjamin  for  about  twenty-five  years.    It  attained 

Franklin  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  Rich-  great  popularity.— Editor. 
ard  Saunders.    "  Poor  Richard's  Almanac  " 


8  FRANKLIN 

buy  ten  more,  that  your  appearance  may  be  all  of  a  piece ;  but 
Poor  Dick  says,  '  It  is  easier  to  suppress  the  first  desire,  than 
to  satisfy  all  that  follow  it.'  And  it  is  as  truly  folly  for  the 
poor  to  ape  the  rich,  as  for  the  frog  to  swell  in  order  to  equal 
the  ox. 

*  Vessels  large  may  venture  more. 
But  little  boats  should  keep  near  shore.* 

It  is,  however,  a  folly  soon  punished ;  for  as  Poor  Richard  says, 
'  Pride  that  dines  on  vanity,  sups  on  contempt.  Pride  break- 
fasted with  Plenty,  dined  with  Poverty,  and  supped  with  In- 
famy.' And,  after  all,  of  what  use  is  this  pride  of  appearance, 
for  which  so  much  is  risked,  so  much  is  suffered?  It  cannot 
promote  health,  nor  ease  pain ;  it  makes  no  increase  of  merit  in 
the  person ;  it  creates  envy ;  it  hastens  misfortune. 

""^But  what  madness  must  it  be  to  run  in  debt  for  these  super- 
fluities ?  We  are  offered,  by  the  terms  of  this  sale,  six  months' 
credit,  and  that,  perhaps,  has  induced  some  of  us  to  attend  it, 
because  we  cannot  spare  the  ready  money,  and  hope  now  to  be 
fine  without  it.  But,  ah !  think  what  you  do  when  you  run  in 
debt ;  you  give  to  another  power  over  your  liberty.  If  you  can- 
not pay  at  the  time,  you  will  be  ashamed  to  see  your  creditor; 
you  will  be  in  fear  when  you  speak  to  him ;  you  will  make  poor, 
pitiful,  sneaking  excuses,  and,  by  degrees,  come  to  lose  your 
veracity,  and  sink  into  base,  downright  lying ;  for  '  The  second 
vice  is  lying,  the  first  is  running  in  debt,'  as  Poor  Richard  says ; 
and  again,  to  the  same  purpose,  '  Lying  rides  upon  Debt's 
back ' :  whereas  a  free-born  Englishman  ought  not  to  be 
ashamed  nor  afraid  to  see  or  speak  to  any  man  living.  But 
poverty  often  deprives  a  man  of  all  spirit  and  virtue.  '  It  is 
hard  for  an  empty  bag  to  stand  upright.' 

"What  would  you  think  of  that  prince,  or  of  that  govern- 
ment, who  should  issue  an  edict  forbidding  you  to  dress  like  a 
gentleman  or  gentlewoman,  on  pain  of  imprisonment  or  servi- 
tude ?  Would  you  not  say  that  you  were  free,  have  a  right  to 
dress  as  you  please,  and  that  such  an  edict  would  be  a  breach 
of  your  privileges,  and  such  a  government  tyrannical?  And 
yet  you  are  about  to  put  yourself  under  such  tyranny,  when  you 
run  in  debt  for  such  dress !  Your  creditor  has  authority,  at  his 
pleasure,  to  deprive  you  of  your  liberty,  by  confining  you  in  jail 


THE   WAY   TO   WEALTH  9 

till  you  shall  be  able  to  pay  him.  When  you  have  got  your  bar- 
gain, you  may,  perhaps,  think  little  of  payment;  but,  as  Poor 
Richard  says,  '  Creditors  have  better  memories  than  debtors ; 
creditors  are  a  superstitious  sect,  great  observers  of  set  days 
and  times/  The  day  comes  round  before  you  are  aware,  and 
the  demand  is  made  before  you  are  prepared  to  satisfy  it ;  or,  if 
you  bear  your  debt  in  mind,  the  term,  which  at  first  seemed  so 
long,  will,  as  it  lessens,  appear  extremely  short.  Time  will 
seem  to  have  added  wings  to  his  heels  as  well  as  his  shoulders. 
'  Those  have  a  short  Lent  who  owe  money  to  be  paid  at  Easter.* 
At  present,  perhaps,  you  may  think  yourselves  in  thriving  cir- 
cumstances, and  that  you  can  bear  a  little  extravagance  without 
injury;  but 

*  For  age  and  want  save  while  you  may; 
No  morning  sun  lasts  a  whole  day.' 

Gain  may  be  temporary  and  uncertain,  but  ever,  while  you  live, 
expense  is  constant  and  certain ;  and  '  It  is  easier  to  build  two 
chimneys,  than  to  keep  one  in  fuel,'  as  Poor  Richard  says ;  so, 
*  Rather  go  to  bed  supperless  than  rise  in  debt.' 

*  Get  what  you  can,  and  what  you  get  hold; 
'Tis  the  stone  that  will  turn  all  your  lead  into  gold.' 

And,  when  you  have  got  the  philosopher's  stone,  sure  you  will 
no  longer  complain  of  bad  times,  or  the  difficulty  of  paying 
taxes. 

"  IV.  This  doctrine,  my  friends,  is  reason  and  wisdom ;  but, 
after  all,  do  not  depend  too  much  upon  your  own  industry,  and 
frugality,  and  prudence,  though  excellent  things ;  for  they  may 
all  be  blasted,  without  the  blessing  of  Heaven ;  and,  therefore, 
ask  that  blessing  humbly,  and  be  not  uncharitable  to  those  that 
at  present  seem  to  want  it,  but  comfort  and  help  them.  Re- 
member, Job  suflFered,  and  was  afterwards  prosperous. 

"  And  now,  to  conclude, '  Experience  keeps  a  dear  school,  but 
fools  will  learn  in  no  other,'  as  Poor  Richard  says,  and  scarce 
in  that ;  for,  it  is  true, '  We  may  give  advice,  but  we  cannot  give 
conduct.'  However,  remember  this,  *  They  that  will  not  be 
counselled,  cannot  be  helped ' ;  and  further,  that,  '  If  you  will 
not  hear  Reason,  she  will  surely  rap  your  knuckles,'  as  Poor 
Richard  says." 


lo  FRANKLIN 

Thus  the  old  gentleman  ended  his  harangue.  The  people 
heard  it,  and  approved  the  doctrine ;  and  immediately  practised 
the  contrary,  just  as  if  it  had  been  a  common  sermon;  for  the 
auction  opened,  and  they  began  to  buy  extravagantly.  I  found 
the  good  man  had  thoroughly  studied  my  "  Almanacs,"  and  di- 
gested all  I  had  dropped  on  these  topics  during  the  course  of 
twenty-five  years.  The  frequent  mention  he  made  of  me  must 
have  tired  anyone  else ;  but  my  vanity  was  wonderfully  delighted 
with  it,  though  I  was  conscious  that  not  a  tenth  part  of  the  wis- 
dom was  my  own,  which  he  ascribed  to  me,  but  rather  the  glean- 
ings that  I  had  made  of  the  sense  of  all  ages  and  nations.  How- 
ever, I  resolved  to  be  the  better  for  the  echo  of  it ;  and,  though 
I  had  at  first  determined  to  buy  stuff  for  a  new  coat,  I  went 
away  resolved  to  wear  my  old  one  a  little  longer.  Reader,  if 
thou  wilt  do  the  same,  thy  profit  will  be  as  great  as  mine. 


MORALS   OF  CHESS 

PLAYING  at  chess  is  the  most  ancient  and  most  universal 
game  known  among  men;  for  its  origin^  is  beyond 
the  memory  of  history,  and  it  has,  for  numberless  ages, 
been  the  amusement  of  all  the  civilized  nations  of  Asia,  the  Per- 
sians, the  Indians,  and  the  Chinese.  Europe  has  had  it  above 
a  thousand  years ;  the  Spaniards  have  spread  it  over  their  part 
of  America ;  and  it  has  lately  begun  to  make  its  appearance  in 
the  United  States.  It  is  so  interesting  in  itself  as  not  to  need 
the  view  of  gain  to  induce  engaging  in  it ;  and  thence  it  is  sel- 
dom played  for  money.  Those,  therefore,  who  have  leisure  for 
such  diversions,  cannot  find  one  that  is  more  innocent ;  and  the 
following  piece,  written  with  a  view  to  correct  (among  a  few 
young  friends)  some  little  improprieties  in  the  practice  of  it, 
shows  at  the  same  time  that  it  may,  in  its  effects  on  the  mind, 
be  not  merely  innocent,  but  advantageous,  to  the  vanquished  as 
well  as  the  victor. 

The  game  of  chess  is  not  merely  an  idle  amusement.  Several 
very  valuable  qualities  of  the  mind,  useful  in  the  course  of  hu- 
man life,  are  to  be  acquired  or  strengthened  by  it,  so  as  to  be- 
come habits,  ready  on  all  occasions.  For  life  is  a  kind  of  chess, 
in  which  we  have  often  points  to  gain,  and  competitors  or  ad- 
versaries to  contend  with,  and  in  which  there  is  a  vast  variety 
of  good  and  evil  events,  that  are  in  some  degree  the  effects  of 
prudence  or  the  want  of  it.  By  playing  at  chess,  then,  we  may 
learn — 

I.  Foresight,  which  looks  a  little  into  futurity,  and  considers 
the  consequences  that  may  attend  an  action ;  for  it  is  continually 
occurring  to  the  player,  "  If  I  move  this  piece,  what  will  be  the 
advantage  of  my  new  situation  ?  What  use  can  my  adversary 
make  of  it  to  annoy  me  ?  What  other  moves  can  I  make  to  sup- 
port it,  and  to  defend  myself  from  his  attacks  ?  " 

II.  Circumspection,  which  surveys  the  whole  chessboard,  or 


^ 


12  FRANKLIN 

scene  of  action ;  the  relations  of  the  several  pieces  and  situations, 
the  dangers  they  are  respectively  exposed  to,  the  several  pos- 
sibilities of  their  aiding  each  other,  the  probabilities  that  the 
adversary  may  make  this  or  that  move,  and  attack  this  or  the 
other  piece,  and  what  different  means  can  be  used  to  avoid  his 
stroke,  or  turn  its  consequences  against  him. 

III.  Caution,  not  to  make  our  moves  too  hastily.  This  habit 
is  best  acquired  by  observing  strictly  the  laws  of  the  game ;  such 
as,  "  If  you  touch  a  piece,  you  must  move  it  somewhere ;  if  you 
set  it  down,  you  must  let  it  stand  " ;  and  it  is  therefore  best  that 
these  rules  should  be  observed,  as  the  game  thereby  becomes 
more  the  image  of  human  life,  and  particularly  of  war ;  in  which, 
if  you  have  incautiously  put  yourself  into  a  bad  and  dangerous 
position,  you  cannot  obtain  your  enemy's  leave  to  withdraw  your 
troops,  and  place  them  more  securely,  but  you  must  abide  all 
the  consequences  of  your  rashness. 

And,  lastly,  we  learn  by  chess  the  habit  of  not  being  discour- 
.  aged  by  present  appearances  in  the  state  of  our  affairs,  the  habit 
of  hoping  for  a  favorable  change,  and  that  of  persevering  in  the 
search  of  resources.  The  game  is  so  full  of  events,  there  is 
such  a  variety  of  turns  in  it,  the  fortune  of  it  is  so  subject  to 
sudden  vicissitudes,  and  one  so  frequently,  after  long  contem- 
plation, discovers  the  means  of  extricating  one's  self  from  a 
supposed  insurmountable  difficulty,  that  one  is  encouraged  to 
continue  the  contest  to  the  last,  in  hopes  of  victory  by  our  own 
skill,  or  at  least  of  getting  a  stale-mate,^  by  the  negligence  of  our 
adversary.  And  whoever  considers,  what  in  chess  he  often  sees 
instances  of,  that  particular  pieces  of  success  are  apt  to  produce 
presumption,  and  its  consequent  inattention,  by  which  the  losses 
may  be  recovered,  will  learn  not  to  be  too  much  discouraged  by 
the  present  success  of  his  adversary,  nor  to  despair  of  final  good 
fortune  upon  every  little  check  he  receives  in  the  pursuit  of  it.  \ 

That  we  may  therefore  be  induced  more  frequently  to  choose 
this  beneficial  amusement,  in  preference  to  others  which  are  not 
attended  with  the  same  advantages,  every  circumstance  which 
may  increase  the  pleasures  of  it  should  be  regarded ;  and  every 
action  or  word  that  is  unfair,  disrespectful,  or  that  in  any  way 
may  give  uneasiness,  should  be  avoided,  as  contrary  to  the  im- 

»  When  the  King  is  so  situated  that  he       is  not  in  check  at  the  time,  it  is  termed  stale- 
cannot  move  without  going  into  check,  and       mate,  which  counts  as  a  drawn  game. 


MORALS  OF   CHESS  13 

mediate  intention  of  both  the  players,  which  is  to  pass  the  time 
agreeably.  ^ 

Therefore,  first,  if  it  is  agreed  to  play  according  to  the  strict 
rules,  then  those  rules  are  to  be  exactly  observed  by  both  par- 
ties, and  should  not  be  insisted  on  for  one  side,  while  deviated 
from  by  the  other,  for  this  is  not  equitable. 

Secondly,  if  it  is  agreed  not  to  observe  the  rules  exactly,  but 
one  party  demands  indulgences,  he  should  then  be  as  willing  to 
allow  them  to  the  other. 

Thirdly,  no  false  move  should  ever  be  made  to  extricate  your- 
self out  of  difficulty,  or  to  gain  an  advantage.  There  can  be  no 
pleasure  in  playing  with  a  person  once  detected  in  such  unfair 
practice. 

Fourthly,  if  your  adversary  is  long  in  playing,  you  ought  not 
to  hurry  him,  or  express  any  uneasiness  at  his  delay.  You 
should  not  sing,  nor  whistle,  nor  look  at  your  watch,  nor  take 
up  a  book  to  read,  nor  make  a  tapping  with  your  feet  on  the 
floor,  or  with  your  fingers  on  the  table,  nor  do  anything  that 
may  disturb  his  attention.  For  all  these  things  displease ;  and 
they  do  not  show  your  skill  in  playing,  but  your  craftiness  or 
your  rudeness. 

Fifthly,  you  ought  not  to  endeavor  to  amuse  and  deceive  your 
adversary,  by  pretending  to  have  made  bad  moves,  and  saying, 
that  you  have  now  lost  the  game,  in  order  to  make  him  secure 
and  careless,  and  inattentive  to  your  schemes ;  for  this  is  fraud 
and  deceit,  not  skill  in  the  game. 

Sixthly,  you  must  not,  when  you  have  gained  a  victory,  use 
any  triumphing  or  insulting  expression,  nor  show  too  much 
pleasure;  but  endeavor  to  console  your  adversary,  and  make 
him  less  dissatisfied  with  himself,  by  every  kind  of  civil  expres- 
sion that  may  be  used  with  truth,  such  as,  "  You  understand  the 
game  better  than  I,  but  you  are  a  little  inattentive  " ;  or,  "  You 
play  too  fast " ;  or,  "  You  had  the  best  of  the  game,  but  some- 
thing happened  to  divert  your  thoughts,  and  that  turned  it  in 
my  favor." 

Seventhly,  if  you  are  a  spectator  while  others  play,  observe 
the  most  perfect  silence.  For,  if  you  give  advice,  you  offend 
both  parties,  him  against  whom  you  give  it,  because  it  may  cause 
the  loss  of  his  game,  him  in  whose  favor  you  may  give  it,  be- 
cause, though  it  be  good,  and  he  follows  it,  he  loses  the  pleasure 


14  FRANKLIN 

he  might  have  had,  if  you  had  permitted  him  to  think  until  it 
had  occurred  to  himself.  Even  after  a  move  or  moves,  you 
must  not,  by  replacing  the  pieces,  show  how  they  might  have 
been  placed  better;  for  that  displeases,  and  may  occasion  dis- 
putes and  doubts  about  their  true  situation.  All  talking  to  the 
players  lessens  or  diverts  their  attention,  and  is  therefore  un- 
pleasing.  Nor  should  you  give  the  least  hint  to  either  party,  by 
any  kind  of  noise  or  motion.  If  you  do,  you  are  unworthy  to 
be  a  spectator.  If  you  have  a  mind  to  exercise  or  show  your 
judgment,  do  it  in  playing  your  own  game,  when  you  have  an 
opportunity,  not  in  criticising,  or  meddling  with,  or  counseUing 
the  play  of  others. 

Lastly,  if  the  game  is  not  to  be  played  rigorously,  according 
to  the  rules  above  mentioned,  then  moderate  your  desire  of  vic- 
tory over  your  adversary,  and  be  pleased  with  one  over  your- 
self. Snatch  not  eagerly  at  every  advantage  offered  by  his  un- 
skilfulness  or  inattention ;  but  point  out  to  him  kindly,  that  by 
such  a  move  he  places  or  leaves  a  piece  in  danger  and  unsup- 
ported ;  that  by  another  he  will  put  his  king  in  a  perilous  situa- 
tion, etc.  By  this  generous  civility  (so  opposite  to  the  unfair- 
ness above  forbidden)  you  may,  indeed,  happen  to  lose  the 
game  to  your  opponent;  but  you  will  win,  what  is  better,  his 
esteem,  his  respect,  and  his  affection,  together  with  the  silent 
approbation  and  good-will  of  impartial  spectators. 


SELF-CULTURE 


BY 


WILLIAM    ELLERY    CHANNING 


WILLIAM   ELLERY   CHANNING 
1780— 1842 

The  greatest  organizer  of  the  Unitarian  movement  in  America,  Will- 
iam Ellery  Chaning,  was  born  at  Newport,  Rhode  Island,  in  1780.  He 
was  prepared  for  college  under  the  tuition  of  his  uncle,  the  Rev.  Henry 
Channing,  and  entered  Harvard  in  1794,  He  was  precocious  as  a  boy, 
and  later  thorough  as  a  student,  but  of  a  delicate  constitution.  When 
only  twenty-three  years  old  he  became  pastor  of  the  Federal  Street 
Church  in  Boston,  and  in  a  few  years  had  won  a  wide  fame  for  elo- 
quence, and  put  himself  at  the  head  of  the  Unitarian  party  in  the  schism 
of  the  Congregational  Church.  In  1822  Channing  made  an  extended 
tour  in  Europe,  bringing  back  with  him  perhaps  more  of  the  spirit  ol 
Old  World  culture  than  any  American  that  had  been  abroad. 

Not  only  were  his  pulpit  discourses  powerful  and  stimulating  far  be- 
yond those  of  any  of  his  contemporaries,  still  in  bondage  to  the  narrow 
theology  of  the  Mathers,  but  his  published  writings  on  topics  other  than 
divinity  were  widely  read  and  appreciated.  In  his  essay  on  "  Self- 
Culture  "  Channing  advocated  the  study  of  foreign  literature,  and  in- 
sisted strongly  on  the  importance  of  a  more  thorough  culture.  He 
looked  upon  self-culture  as  a  religious  duty,  and  pointed  out  and  de- 
fined the  connection  between  moral  and  intellectual  culture.  In  his 
admirable  essays  on  Napoleon,  Milton  and  Fenelon,  Dr.  Channing 
contributed  to  American  literature  critical  essays  of  genuine  merit. 
These  articles,  which  were  first  published  in  the  "  Christian  Exam- 
iner," broadened  the  literary  horizon  of  many  American  thinkers,  and 
thus  incited  many  to  the  attainment  of  that  culture  for  which  Channing 
so  earnestly  pleaded. 

Dr.  Channing  was  a  friend  of  the  father  of  Emerson,  and  a  classmate 
and  friend  of  the  father  of  Longfellow.  His  influence  on  the  minds 
of  his  contemporaries  was  remarkable,  and  can  only  be  appreciated  at 
the  present  day  by  remembering  what  a  dearth  of  real  literary  ability 
there  was  in  this  country  in  his  time.  In  1830  Dr.  Channing  published 
"  Discourses,  Reviews,  and  Miscellanies."  In  later  collections  of  his 
works  many  additional  articles  were  printed,  bringing  the  complete 
edition  of  his  works  up  to  six  volumes.  He  died  at  Bennington,  Ver- 
mont, in  1842. 


16 


SELF-CULTURE 

MY  Respected  Friends :  By  the  invitation  of  the  com- 
mittee of  arrangements  for  the  FrankHn  Lectures  I 
now  appear  before  you  to  offer  some  remarks  intro- 
ductory to  this  course.^  My  principal  inducement  for  doing 
so  is  my  deep  interest  in  those  of  my  fellow-citizens  for  whom 
these  lectures  are  principally  designed.  I  understood  that  they 
were  to  be  attended  chiefly  by  those  who  are  occupied  by 
manual  labor;  and,  hearing  this,  I  did  not  feel  myself  at  lib- 
erty to  decHne  the  service  to  which  I  had  been  invited.  I 
wished  by  compliance  to  express  my  sympathy  with  this  large 
portion  of  my  race.  I  wished  to  express  my  sense  of  obliga- 
tion to  those  from  whose  industry  and  skill  I  derive  almost 
all  the  comforts  of  life.  I  wished  still  more  to  express  my  joy 
in  the  efforts  they  are  making  for  their  own  improvement, 
and  my  firm  faith  in  their  success.  These  motives  will  give 
a  particular  character  and  bearing  to  some  of  my  remarks. 
I  shall  speak  occasionally  as  among  those  who  live  by  the 
labor  of  their  hands.  But  I  shall  not  speak  as  one  separated 
from  them.  I  belong  rightfully  to  the  great  fraternity  of 
working  men.  Happily  in  this  community  we  all  are  bred 
and  born  to  work;  and  this  honorable  mark,  set  on  us  all, 
should  bind  together  the  various  portions  of  the  community. 
I  have  expressed  my  strong  interest  in  the  mass  of  the  peo- 
ple ;  and  this  is  founded,  not  on  their  usefulness  to  the  com- 
mtmity,  so  much  as  on  what  they  are  in  themselves.  Their 
condition  is  indeed  obscure;  but  their  importance  is  not  on 
this  account  a  whit  the  less.  The  multitude  of  men  cannot, 
from  the  nature  of  the  case,  be  distinguished ;  for  the  very 
idea  of  distinction  is,  that  a  man  stands  out  from  the  multi- 
tude. They  make  little  noise  and  draw  little  notice  in  their 
narrow  spheres  of  action ;    but  still  they  have  their  full  pro- 

1  This  essay  was  originally  delivered  at  Boston  in  September,  1838,  as  an  introductory 
address  to  the  Franklin  Lectures. 

2  17 


i8  CHANNING 

portion  of  personal  worth  and  even  of  greatness.  Indeed 
every  man,  in  every  condition,  is  great.  It  is  only  our  own 
diseased  sight  which  makes  him  little.  A  man  is  great  as  a 
man,  be  he  where  or  what  he  may.  The  grandeur  of  his  nat- 
ure turns  to  insignificance  all  outward  distinctions.  His  pow- 
ers of  intellect,  of  conscience,  of  love,  of  knowing  God,  of 
perceiving  the  beautiful,  of  acting  on  his  own  mind,  on  out- 
ward nature,  and  on  his  fellow-creatures — these  are  glorious 
prerogatives.  Through  the  vulgar  error  of  undervaluing  what 
is  common  we  are  apt  indeed  to  pass  these  by  as  of  little  worth. 
But  as  in  the  outward  creation,  so  in  the  soul,  the  common  is 
the  most  precious.  Science  and  art  may  invent  splendid 
modes  of  illuminating  the  apartments  of  the  opulent;  but 
these  are  all  poor  and  worthless  compared  with  the  common 
light  which  the  sun  sends  into  all  our  windows,  which  he 
pours  freely,  impartially  over  hill  and  valley,  which  kindles 
daily  the  eastern  and  western  sky ;  and  so  the  common  lights 
of  reason,  and  conscience,  and  love,  are  of  more  worth  and 
dignity  than  the  rare  endowments  which  give  celebrity  to  a 
few.  Let  us  not  disparage  that  nature  which  is  common  to 
all  men;  for  no  thought  can  measure  its  grandeur.  It  is  the 
image  of  God,  the  image  even  of  his  infinity,  for  no  limits 
can  be  set  to  its  unfolding.  He  who  possesses  the  divine 
powers  of  the  soul  is  a  great  being,  be  his  place  what  it  may. 
You  may  clothe  him  with  rags,  may  immure  him  in  a  dun- 
geon, may  chain  him  to  slavish  tasks.  But  he  is  still  great. 
You  may  shut  him  out  of  your  houses;  but  God  opens  to 
him  heavenly  mansions.  He  makes  no  show  indeed  in  the 
streets  of  a  splendid  city;  but  a  clear  thought,  a  pure  aflfec- 
tion,  a  resolute  act  of  a  virtuous  will,  have  a  dignity  of  quite 
another  kind,  and  far  higher  than  accumulations  of  brick  and 
granite  and  plaster  and  stucco,  however  cunningly  put  to- 
gether, or  though  stretching  far  beyond  our  sight.  Nor  is 
this  all.  If  we  pass  over  this  grandeur  of  our  common  nat- 
ure, and  turn  our  thoughts  to  that  comparative  greatness, 
which  draws  chief  attention,  and  which  consists  in  the  decided 
superiority  of  the  individual  to  the  general  standard  of  power 
and  character,  we  shall  find  this  as  free  and  frequent  a  growth 
among  the  obscure  and  unnoticed  as  in  more  conspicuous 
walks  of  life.     The  truly  great  are  to  be  found  everywhere. 


SELF-CULTURE  19 

nor  is  it  easy  to  say  in  what  condition  they  spring  up  most 
plentifully.  Real  greatness  has  nothing  to  do  with  a  man's 
sphere.  It  does  not  lie  in  the  magnitude  of  his  outward 
agency,  in  the  extent  of  the  effects  which  he  produces.  The 
greatest  men  may  do  comparatively  little  abroad.  Perhaps  the 
greatest  in  our  city  at  this  moment  are  buried  in  obscurity. 
Grandeur  of  character  Hes  wholly  in  force  of  soul,  that  is,  in  the 
force  of  thought,  moral  principle,  and  love,  and  this  may  be 
found  in  the  humblest  condition  of  life.  A  man  brought  up  to 
an  obscure  trade,  and  hemmed  in  by  the  wants  of  a  growing 
family,  may,  in  his  narrow  sphere,  perceive  more  clearly,  dis- 
criminate more  keenly,  weigh  evidence  more  wisely,  seize  on  the 
right  means  more  decisively,  and  have  more  presence  of  mind 
in  difficulty,  than  another  who  has  accumulated  vast  stores  of 
knowledge  by  laborious  study ;  and  he  has  more  of  intellectual 
greatness.  Many  a  man  who  has  gone  but  a  few  miles  from 
home  understands  human  nature  better,  detects  motives  and 
weighs  character  more  sagaciously,  than  another  who  has 
travelled  over  the  known  world,  and  made  a  name  by  his  re- 
ports of  different  countries.  It  is  force  of  thought  which  meas- 
ures intellectual,  and  so  it  is  force  of  principle  which  measures 
moral  greatness,  that  highest  of  human  endowments,  that 
brightest  manifestation  of  the  Divinity.  The  greatest  man  is 
he  who  chooses  the  right  with  invincible  resolution,  who  resists 
the  sorest  temptations  from  within  and  without,  who  bears  the 
heaviest  burdens  cheerfully,  who  is  calmest  in  storms,  and  most 
fearless  under  menace  and  frowns,  whose  reliance  on  truth,  on 
virtue,  on  God,  is  most  unfaltering;  and  is  this  a  greatness 
which  is  apt  to  make  a  show,  or  which  is  most  likely  to  abound 
in  conspicuous  station?  The  solemn  conflicts  of  reason  with 
passion;  the  victories  of  moral  and  religious  principle  over 
urgent  and  almost  irresistible  solicitations  to  self-indulgence ; 
the  hardest  sacrifices  of  duty,  those  of  deep-seated  affection  and 
of  the  heart's  fondest  hopes ;  the  consolations,  hopes,  joys,  and 
peace  of  disappointed,  persecuted,  scorned,  deserted  virtue — 
these  are  of  course  unseen ;  so  that  the  true  greatness  of  human 
Hfe  is  almost  wholly  out  of  sight.  Perhaps  in  our  presence,  the 
most  heroic  deed  on  earth  is  done  in  some  silent  spirit,  the 
loftiest  purpose  cherished,  the  most  generous  sacrifice  made, 
and  we  do  not  suspect  it.     I  believe  this  greatness  to  be  most 


20  CHANNING 

common  among  the  multitude,  whose  names  are  never  heard. 
Among  common  people  will  be  found  more  of  hardship  borne 
manfully,  more  of  unvarnished  truth,  more  of  religious  trust, 
more  of  that  generosity  which  gives  what  the  giver  needs  him- 
self, and  more  of  a  wise  estimate  of  life  and  death,  than  among 
the  more  prosperous.  And  even  in  regard  to  influence  over 
other  beings,  which  is  thought  the  peculiar  prerogative  of  dis- 
tinguished station,  I  believe  that  the  difference  between  the 
conspicuous  and  the  obscure  does  not  amount  to  much.  Influ- 
ence is  to  be  measured,  not  by  the  extent  of  surface  it  covers, 
but  by  its  kind.  A  man  may  spread  his  mind,  his  feelings,  and 
opinions,  through  a  great  extent ;  but  if  his  mind  be  a  low  one, 
he  manifests  no  greatness.  A  wretched  artist  may  fill  a  city 
with  daubs,  and  by  a  false,  showy  style  achieve  a  reputation; 
but  the  man  of  genius,  who  leaves  behind  him  one  grand  pict- 
ure, in  which  immortal  beauty  is  embodied,  and  which  is  si- 
lently to  spread  a  true  taste  in  his  art,  exerts  an  incomparably 
higher  influence.  Now  the  noblest  influence  on  earth  is  that 
exerted  on  character ;  and  he  who  puts  forth  this  does  a  great 
work,  no  matter  how  narrow  or  obscure  his  sphere.  The 
father  and  mother  of  an  unnoticed  family,  who,  in  their  se- 
clusion, awaken  the  mind  of  one  child  to  the  idea  and  love  of 
perfect  goodness,  who  awaken  in  him  a  strength  of  will  to  repel 
all  temptation,  and  who  send  him  out  prepared  to  profit  by  the 
conflicts  of  life,  surpass  in  influence  a  Napoleon  breaking  the 
world  to  his  sway.  And  not  only  is  their  work  higher  in  kind ; 
who  knows  but  that  they  are  doing  a  greater  work  even  as  to 
extent  of  surface  than  the  conqueror?  Who  knows  but  that 
the  being  whom  they  inspire  with  holy  and  disinterested  prin- 
ciples may  communicate  himself  to  others;  and  that,  by  a 
spreading  agency,  of  which  they  were  the  silent  origin,  im- 
provements may  spread  through  a  nation,  through  the  world? 
In  these  remarks  you  will  see  why  I  feel  and  express  a  deep 
interest  in  the  obscure,  in  the  mass  of  men.  The  distinctions 
of  society  vanish  before  the  light  of  these  truths.  I  attach  my- 
self to  the  multitude,  not  because  they  are  voters  and  have  po- 
litical power ;  but  because  they  are  men,  and  have  within  their 
reach  the  most  glorious  prizes  of  humanity. 

In  this  country  the  mass  of  the  people  are  distinguished  by 
possessing  means  of  improvement,  of  self-culture,  possessed 


SELF-CULTURE  21 

nowhere  else.  To  incite  them  to  the  use  of  these  is  to  render 
them  the  best  service  they  can  receive.  Accordingly,  I  have 
chosen  for  the  subject  of  this  lecture  Self -Culture,  or  the  care 
v^hich  every  man  owes  to  himself,  to  the  unfolding  and  perfect- 
ing of  his  nature.  I  consider  this  topic  as  particularly  appro- 
priate to  the  introduction  of  a  course  of  lectures,  in  consequence 
of  a  common  disposition  to  regard  these  and  other  like  means 
of  instruction  as  able  of  themselves  to  carry  forward  the  hearer. 
Lectures  have  their  use.  They  stir  up  many  who,  but  for  such 
outward  appeals,  might  have  slumbered  to  the  end  of  life.  But 
let  it  be  remembered  that  little  is  to  be  gained  simply  by  coming 
to  this  place  once  a  week,  and  giving  up  the  mind  for  an  hour 
to  be  wrought  upon  by  a  teacher.  Unless  we  are  roused  to  act 
upon  ourselves,  unless  we  engage  in  the  work  of  self-improve- 
ment, unless  we  purpose  strenuously  to  form  and  elevate  our 
own  minds,  unless  what  we  hear  is  made  a  part  of  ourselves  by 
conscientious  reflection,  very  little  permanent  good  is  received. 

Self-culture,  I  am  aware,  is  a  topic  too  extensive  for  a  single 
discourse,  and  I  shall  be  able  to  present  but  a  few  views  which 
seem  to  me  most  important.  My  aim  will  be,  to  give  first  the 
idea  of  self-culture,  next  its  means,  and  then  to  consider  some 
objections  to  the  leading  views  which  I  am  now  to  lay  before 
you. 

Before  entering  on  the  discussion,  let  me  offer  one  remark. 
Self-culture  is  something  possible.  It  is  not  a  dream.  It  has 
foundations  in  our  nature.  Without  this  conviction  the  speaker 
will  but  declaim,  and  the  hearer  listen  without  profit.  There 
are  two  powers  of  the  human  soul  which  make  self-culture  pos- 
sible— the  self-searching  and  the  self-forming  power.  We 
have  first  the  faculty  of  turning  the  mind  on  itself;  of  recalling 
its  past,  and  watching  its  present  operations;  of  learning  its 
various  capacities  and  susceptibilities,  what  it  can  do  and  bear, 
what  it  can  enjoy  and  suffer;  and  of  thus  learning  in  general 
what  our  nature  is,  and  what  it  was  made  for.  It  is  worthy  of 
observation  that  we  are  able  to  discern  not  only  what  we  already 
are,  but  what  we  may  become,  to  see  in  ourselves  germs  and 
promises  of  a  growth  to  which  no  bounds  can  be  set,  to  dart 
beyond  what  we  have  actually  gained  to  the  idea  of  perfection 
as  the  end  of  our  being.  It  is  by  this  self-comprehending  power 
that  we  are  distinguished  from  the  brutes,  which  give  no  signs 


22  CHANNING 

of  looking  into  themselves.  Without  this  there  would  be  no 
self-culture,  for  we  should  not  know  the  work  to  be  done ;  and 
one  reason  why  self-culture  is  so  little  proposed  is,  that  so  few 
penetrate  into  their  own  nature.  To  most  men  their  own  spirits 
are  shadowy,  unreal,  compared  with  what  is  outward.  When 
they  happen  to  cast  a  glance  inward,  they  see  there  only  a  dark, 
vague  chaos.  They  distinguish,  perhaps,  some  violent  passion, 
which  has  driven  them  to  injurious  excess;  but  their  highest 
powers  hardly  attract  a  thought ;  and  thus  multitudes  live  and 
die  as  truly  strangers  to  themselves  as  to  countries  of  which 
they  have  heard  the  name,  but  which  human  foot  has  never 
trodden. 

But  self-culture  is  possible,  not  only  because  we  can  enter 
into  and  search  ourselves.  We  have  a  still  nobler  power,  that 
of  acting  on,  determining,  and  forming  ourselves.  This  is  a 
fearful  as  well  as  glorious  endowment,  for  it  is  the  ground  of 
human  responsibility.  We  have  the  power  not  only  of  tracing 
our  powers,  but  of  guiding  and  impelling  them;  not  only  of 
watching  our  possessions,  but  of  controlling  them ;  not  only  of 
seeing  our  faculties  grow,  but  of  applying  to  them  means  and 
influences  to  aid  their  growth.  We  can  stay  or  change  the  cur- 
rent of  thought.  We  can  concentrate  the  intellect  on  objects 
which  we  wish  to  comprehend.  We  can  fix  our  eyes  on  perfec- 
tion, and  make  almost  everything  speed  towards  it.  This  is, 
indeed,  a  noble  prerogative  of  our  nature.  Possessing  this,  it 
matters  little  what  or  where  we  are  now,  for  we  can  conquer 
a  better  lot,  and  even  be  happier  for  starting  from  the  lowest 
point.  Of  all  the  discoveries  which  men  need  to  make,  the 
most  important,  at  the  present  moment,  is  that  of  the  self-form- 
ing power  treasured  up  in  themselves.  They  little  suspect  its 
extent,  as  little  as  the  savage  apprehends  the  energy  which  the 
mind  is  created  to  exert  on  the  material  world.  It  transcends 
in  importance  all  our  power  over  outward  nature.  There  is 
more  of  divinity  in  it  than  in  the  force  which  impels  the  out- 
ward universe ;  and  yet  how  little  we  comprehend  it !  How  it 
slumbers  in  most  men  unsuspected,  unused !  This  makes  self- 
culture  possible,  and  binds  it  on  us  as  a  solemn  duty. 

I.  I  am  first  to  unfold  the  idea  of  self-culture;  and  this, 
in  its  most  general  form,  may  easily  be  seized.  To  cultivate 
anything,  be  it  a  plant,  an  animal,  a  mind,  is  to  make  grow. 


SELF-CULTURE  23 

Growth,  expansion,  is  the  end.  Nothing  admits  culture  but 
that  which  has  a  principle  of  life,  capable  of  being  expanded. 
He,  therefore,  who  does  what  he  can  to  unfold  all  his  powers 
and  capacities,  especially  his  nobler  ones,  so  as  to  become  a 
well-proportioned,  vigorous,  excellent,  happy  being,  practices 
self-culture. 

This  culture,  of  course,  has  various  branches  corresponding 
to  the  different  capacities  of  human  nature ;  but,  though  vari- 
ous, they  are  intimately  united,  and  make  progress  together. 
The  soul,  which  our  philosophy  divides  into  various  capacities, 
is  still  one  essence,  one  life ;  and  it  exerts  at  the  same  moment, 
and  blends  in  the  same  act,  its  various  energies  of  thought,  feel- 
ing, and  volition.  Accordingly,  in  a  wise  self-culture,  all  the 
principles  of  our  nature  grow  at  once  by  joint,  harmonious  ac- 
tion, just  as  all  parts  of  the  plant  are  unfolded  together.  When, 
therefore,  you  hear  of  different  branches  of  self-improvement, 
you  will  not  think  of  them  as  distinct  processes  going  on  inde- 
pendently of  each  other,  and  requiring  each  its  own  separate 
means.  Still  a  distinct  consideration  of  these  is  needed  to  a 
full  comprehension  of  the  subject,  and  these  I  shall  proceed  to 
unfold. 

First,  self-culture  is  moral,  a  branch  of  singular  importance. 
When  a  man  looks  into  himself,  he  discovers  two  distinct  orders 
or  kinds  of  principles,  which  it  behooves  him  especially  to  com- 
prehend. He  discovers  desires,  appetites,  passions,  which  ter- 
minate in  himself,  which  crave  and  seek  his  own  interest,  grati- 
fication, distinction;  and  he  discovers  another  principle,  an 
antagonist  to  these,  which  is  impartial,  disinterested,  universal, 
enjoining  on  him  a  regard  to  the  rights  and  happiness  of  other 
beings,  and  laying  on  him  obligations  which  must  be  discharged, 
cost  what  they  may,  or  however  they  may  clash  with  his  par- 
ticular pleasure  or  gain.  No  man,  however  narrowed  to  his 
own  interest,  however  hardened  by  selfishness,  can  deny  that 
there  springs  up  within  him  a  great  idea  in  opposition  to  inter- 
est, the  idea  of  duty,  that  an  inward  voice  calls  him,  more  or 
less  distinctly,  to  revere  and  exercise  impartial  justice  and  uni- 
versal good-will.  This  disinterested  principle  in  human  nat- 
ure we  call  sometimes  reason,  sometimes  conscience,  sometimes 
the  moral  sense  or  faculty.  But,  be  its  name  what  it  may,  it  is 
a  real  principle  in  each  of  us,  and  it  is  the  supreme  power  within 


24  CHANNING 

us,  to  be  cultivated  above  all  others,  for  on  its  culture  the  right 
development  of  all  others  depends.  The  passions  indeed  may 
be  stronger  than  the  conscience,  may  lift  up  a  louder  voice ;  but 
their  clamor  differs  wholly  from  the  tone  of  command  in  which 
the  conscience  speaks.  They  are  not  clothed  with  its  authority, 
its  binding  power.  In  their  very  triumphs  they  are  rebuked  by 
the  moral  principle,  and  often  cower  before  its  still,  deep, 
menacing  voice.  No  part  of  self-knowledge  is  more  important 
than  to  discern  clearly  these  two  great  principles,  the  self-seek- 
ing and  the  disinterested ;  and  the  most  important  part  of  self- 
culture  is  to  depress  the  former,  and  to  exalt  the  latter,  or  to 
enthrone  the  sense  of  duty  within  us.  There  are  no  limits  to 
the  growth  of  this  moral  force  in  man,  if  he  will  cherish  it 
faithfully.  There  have  been  men,  whom  no  power  in  the  uni- 
verse could  turn  from  the  right,  by  whom  death  in  its  most 
dreadful  forms  has  been  less  dreaded  than  transgression  of  the 
inward  law  of  universal  justice  and  love. 

In  the  next  place,  self-culture  is  religious.  When  we  look 
into  ourselves  we  discover  powers  which  link  us  with  this  out- 
ward, visible,  finite,  ever-changing  world.  We  have  sight  and 
other  senses  to  discern,  and  limbs  and  various  faculties  to  secure 
and  appropriate  the  material  creation.  And  we  have,  too,  a 
power  which  cannot  stop  at  what  we  see  and  handle,  at  what 
exists  within  the  bounds  of  space  and  time,  which  seeks  for  the 
infinite,  uncreated  cause,  which  cannot  rest  till  it  ascend  to  the 
eternal,  all-comprehending  mind.  This  we  call  the  religious 
principle,  and  its  grandeur  cannot  be  exaggerated  by  human 
language;  for  it  marks  out  a  being  destined  for  higher  com- 
munion than  with  the  visible  universe.  To  develop  this  is  emi- 
nently to  educate  ourselves.  The  true  idea  of  God,  unfolded 
clearly  and  livingly  within  us,  and  moving  us  to  adore  and  obey 
him,  and  to  aspire  after  likeness  to  him,  is  the  noblest  growth 
in  human,  and,  I  may  add,  in  celestial  natures.  The  religious 
principle  and  the  moral  are  intimately  connected,  and  grow  to- 
gether. The  former  is  indeed  the  perfection  and  highest  mani- 
festation of  the  latter.  They  are  both  disinterested.  It  is  the 
essence  of  true  religion  to  recognize  and  adore  in  God  the  at- 
tributes of  impartial  justice  and  universal  love,  and  to  hear  him 
commanding  us  in  the  conscience  to  become  what  we  adore. 

Again.     Self-culture  is  intellectual.     We  cannot  look  into 


SELF-CULTURE 


25 


ourselves  without  discovering  the  intellectual  principle,  the 
power  which  thinks,  reasons,  and  judges,  the  power  of  seeking 
and  acquiring  truth.  This,  indeed,  we  are  in  no  danger  of  over- 
looking. The  intellect  being  the  great  instrument  by  which 
men  compass  their  wishes,  it  draws  more  attention  than  any  of 
©ur  other  powers.  When  we  speak  to  men  of  improving  them- 
selves, the  first  thought  which  occurs  to  them  is,  that  they  must 
cultivate  their  understanding,  and  get  knowledge  and  skill.  By 
education,  men  mean  almost  exclusively  intellectual  training. 
For  this,  schools  and  colleges  are  instituted,  and  to  this  the 
moral  and  religious  discipline  of  the  young  is  sacrificed.  Now 
I  reverence,  as  much  as  any  man,  the  intellect ;  but  let  us  never 
exalt  it  above  the  moral  principle.  With  this  it  is  most  inti- 
mately connected.  In  this  its  culture  is  founded,  and  to  exalt 
this  is  its  highest  aim.  Whoever  desires  that  his  intellect  may 
grow  up  to  soundness,  to  healthy  vigor,  must  begin  with  moral 
discipline.  Reading  and  study  are  not  enough  to  perfect  the 
power  of  thought.  One  thing  above  all  is  needful,  and  that  is, 
the  disinterestedness  which  is  the  very  soul  of  virtue.  To  gain 
truth,  which  is  the  great  object  of  the  understanding,  I  must 
seek  it  disinterestedly.  Here  is  the  first  and  grand  condition 
of  intellectual  progress.  I  must  choose  to  receive  the  truth,  no 
matter  how  it  bears  on  myself.  I  must  follow  it,  no  matter 
where  it  Iccids,  what  interests  it  opposes,  to  what  persecution  or 
loss  it  lays  me  open,  from  what  party  it  severs  me,  or  to  what 
party  it  allies.  Without  this  fairness  of  mind,  which  is  only 
another  phrase  for  disinterested  love  of  truth,  great  native  pow- 
ers of  understanding  are  perverted  and  led  astray ;  genius  runs 
wild ;  "  the  light  within  us  becomes  darkness."  The  subtlest 
reasoners,  for  want  of  this,  cheat  themselves  as  well  as  others, 
and  become  entangled  in  the  web  of  their  own  sophistry.  It  is 
a  fact  well  known  in  the  history  of  science  and  philosophy,  that 
men,  gifted  by  nature  with  singular  intelligence,  have  broached 
the  grossest  errors,  and  even  sought  to  undermine  the  grand 
primitive  truths  on  which  human  virtue,  dignity,  and  hope  de- 
pend. And,  on  the  other  hand,  I  have  known  instances  of  men 
of  naturally  moderate  powers  of  mind  who,  by  a  disinterested 
love  of  truth  and  their  fellow-creatures,  have  gradually  risen  to 
no  small  force  and  enlargement  of  thought.  Some  of  the  most 
useful  teachers  in  the  pulpit  and  in  schools  have  owed  their 


26  CHANNING 

power  of  enlightening  others,  not  so  much  to  any  natural  su- 
periority as  to  the  simplicity,  impartiality,  and  disinterestedness 
of  their  minds,  to  their  readiness  to  live  and  die  for  the  truth. 
A  man  who  rises  above  himself  looks  from  an  eminence  on  nat- 
ure and  providence,  on  society  and  life.  Thought  expands,  as 
by  a  natural  elasticity,  when  the  pressure  of  selfishness  is  re- 
moved. The  moral  and  religious  principles  of  the  soul,  gen- 
erously cultivated,  fertilize  the  intellect.  Duty,  faithfully  per- 
formed, opens  the  mind  to  truth,  both  being  of  one  family,  alike 
immutable,  universal,  and  everlasting. 

I  have  enlarged  on  this  subject,  because  the  connection  be- 
tween moral  and  intellectual  culture  is  often  overlooked,  and 
because  the  former  is  often  sacrificed  to  the  latter.  The  ex- 
altation of  talent,  as  it  is  called,  above  virtue  and  religion,  is  the 
curse  of  the  age.  Education  is  now  chiefly  a  stimulus  to  learn- 
ing, and  thus  men  acquire  power  without  the  principles  which 
alone  make  it  a  good.  Talent  is  worshipped ;  but,  if  divorced 
from  rectitude,  it  will  prove  more  of  a  demon  than  a  god. 

Intellectual  culture  consists,  not  chiefly,  as  many  are  apt  to 
think,  in  accumulating  information,  though  this  is  important, 
but  in  building  up  a  force  of  thought  which  may  be  turned  at 
will  on  any  subjects  on  which  we  are  called  to  pass  judgment. 
This  force  is  manifested  in  the  concentration  of  the  attention, 
in  accurate,  penetrating  observation,  in  reducing  complex  sub- 
jects to  their  elements,  in  diving  beneath  the  effect  to  the  cause, 
in  detecting  the  more  subtle  differences  and  resemblances  of 
things,  in  reading  the  future  in  the  present  and  especially  in 
rising  from  particular  facts  to  general  laws  or  universal  truths. 
This  last  exertion  of  the  intellect,  its  rising  to  broad  views  and 
great  principles,  constitutes  what  is  called  the  philosophical 
mind,  and  is  especially  worthy  of  culture.  What  it  means,  your 
own  observation  must  have  taught  you.  You  must  have  taken 
note  of  two  classes  of  men,  the  one  always  employed  on  details, 
on  particular  facts,  and  the  other  using  these  facts  as  founda- 
tions of  higher,  wider  truths.  The  latter  are  philosophers. 
For  example,  men  had  for  ages  seen  pieces  of  wood,  stones, 
metals  falling  to  the  ground.  Newton  seized  on  these  particu- 
lar facts,  and  rose  to  the  idea  that  all  matter  tends,  or  is  at- 
tracted, towards  all  matter,  and  then  defined  the  law  according 
to  which  this  attraction  or  force  acts  at  different  distances,  thus 


SELF-CULTURE  27 

giving  us  a  grand  principle,  which,  we  have  reason  to  think, 
extends  to  and  controls  the  whole  outward  creation.  One  man 
reads  a  history,  and  can  tell  you  all  its  events,  and  there  stops. 
Another  combines  these  events,  brings  them  under  one  view, 
and  learns  the  great  causes  which  are  at  work  on  this  or  another 
nation,  and  what  are  its  great  tendencies,  whether  to  freedom 
or  despotism,  to  one  or  another  form  of  civilization.  So,  one 
man  talks  continually  about  the  particular  actions  of  this  or 
another  neighbor;  whilst  another  looks  beyond  the  acts  to  the 
inward  principle  from  which  they  spring,  and  gathers  from 
them  larger  views  of  human  nature.  In  a  word,  one  man  sees 
all  things  apart  and  in  fragments,  whilst  another  strives  to 
discover  the  harmony,  connection,  unity  of  all.  One  of  the 
great  evils  of  society  is,  that  men,  occupied  perpetually  with 
petty  details,  want  general  truths,  want  broad  and  fixed  prin- 
ciples. Hence  many,  not  wicked,  are  unstable,  habitually  in- 
consistent, as  if  they  were  overgrown  children  rather  than  men. 
To  build  up  that  strength  of  mind  which  apprehends  and  cleaves 
to  great  universal  truths,  is  the  highest  intellectual  self-culture ; 
and  here  I  wish  you  to  observe  how  entirely  this  culture  agrees 
with  that  of  the  moral  and  the  religious  principles  of  our  nature, 
of  which  I  have  previously  spoken.  In  each  of  these,  the  im- 
provement of  the  soul  consists  in  raising  it  above  what  is  nar- 
row, particular,  individual,  selfish,  to  the  universal  and  uncon- 
fined.  To  improve  a  man  is  to  liberalize,  enlarge  him  in 
thought,  feeling,  and  purpose.  Narrowness  of  intellect  and 
heart,  this  is  the  degradation  from  which  all  culture  aims  to 
rescue  the  human  being. 

Again.  Self-culture  is  social,  or  one  of  its  great  offices  is  to 
unfold  and  purify  the  affections  which  spring  up  instinctively 
in  the  human  breast,  which  bind  together  husband  and  wife, 
parent  and  child,  brother  and  sister ;  which  bind  a  man  to  friends 
and  neighbors,  to  his  country,  and  to  the  suffering  who  fall  un- 
der his  eye,  wherever  they  belong.  The  culture  of  these  is  an 
important  part  of  our  work,  and  it  consists  in  converting  them 
from  instincts  into  principles,  from  natural  into  spiritual  at- 
tachments, in  giving  them  a  rational,  moral,  and  holy  charac- 
ter. For  example,  our  affection  for  our  children  is  at  first 
instinctive ;  and  if  it  continue  such,  it  rises  little  above  the  brute's 
attachment  to  its  young.     But  when  a  parent  infuses  into  his 


28  CHANNING 

natural  love  for  his  offspring  moral  and  religious  principle; 
when  he  comes  to  regard  his  child  as  an  intelligent,  spiritual, 
immortal  being,  and  honors  him  as  such,  and  desires  first  of  all 
to  make  him  disinterested,  noble,  a  worthy  child  of  God  and 
the  friend  of  his  race,  then  the  instinct  rises  into  a  generous 
and  holy  sentiment.  It  resembles  God's  paternal  love  for  his 
spiritual  family.  A  like  purity  and  dignity  we  must  aim  to 
give  to  all  our  affections. 

Again.  Self-culture  is  practical,  or  it  proposes,  as  one  of  its 
chief  ends,  to  fit  us  for  action,  to  make  us  efficient  in  whatever 
we  undertake,  to  train  Us  to  firmness  of  purpose  and  to  fruitful- 
ness  of  resource  in  common  life,  and  especially  in  emergencies, 
in  times  of  difficulty,  danger,  and  trial.  But  passing  over  this 
and  other  topics  for  which  I  have  no  time,  I  shall  confine  myself 
to  two  branches  of  self-culture  which  have  been  almost  wholly 
overlooked  in  the  education  of  the  people,  and  which  ought  not 
to  be  so  slighted. 

In  looking  at  our  nature,  we  discover,  among  its  admirable 
endowments,  the  sense  or  perception  of  beauty.  We  see  the 
germ  of  this  in  every  human  being,  and  there  is  no  power  which 
admits  greater  cultivation ;  and  why  should  it  not  be  cherished 
in  all?  It  deserves  remark,  that  the  provision  for  this  prin- 
ciple is  infinite  in  the  universe.  There  is  but  a  very  minute 
portion  of  the  creation  which  we  can  turn  into  food  and  clothes, 
or  gratification  for  the  body;  but  the  whole  creation  may  be 
used  to  minister  to  the  sense  of  beauty.  Beauty  is  an  all-per- 
vading presence.  It  unfolds  in  the  numberless  flowers  of  the 
spring.  It  waves  in  the  branches  of  the  trees  and  the  green 
blades  of  grass.  It  haunts  the  depths  of  the  earth  and  sea,  and 
gleams  out  in  the  hues  of  the  shell  and  the  precious  stone.  And 
not  only  these  minute  objects,  but  the  ocean,  the  mountains,  the 
clouds,  the  heavens,  the  stars,  the  rising  and  setting  sun,  all 
overflow  with  beauty.  The  universe  is  its  temple;  and  those 
men  who  are  alive  to  it  cannot  lift  their  eyes  without  feeling 
themselves  encompassed  with  it  on  every  side.  Now  this 
beauty  is  so  precious,  the  enjoyments  it  gives  are  so  refined  and 
pure,  so  congenial  with  our  tenderest  and  noble  feelings,  and 
so  akin  to  worship,  that  it  is  painful  to  think  of  the  multitude 
of  men  as  living  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  living  almost  as  blind 
to  it  as  if,  instead  of  this  fair  earth  and  glorious  sky,  they  were 


SELF-CULTURE  29 

tenants  of  a  dungeon.  An  infinite  joy  is  lost  to  the  world  by  the 
want  of  culture  of  this  spiritual  endowment.  Suppose  that  I 
were  to  visit  a  cottage,  and  to  see  its  walls  lined  with  the  choicest 
pictures  of  Raphael,  and  every  spare  nook  filled  with  statues 
of  the  most  exquisite  workmanship,  and  that  I  were  to  learn 
that  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child  ever  cast  an  eye  at  these 
miracles  of  art,  how  should  I  feel  their  privation ! — how  should 
I  want  to  open  their  eyes,  and  to  help  them  to  comprehend  and 
feel  the  loveliness  and  grandeur  which  in  vain  courted  their 
notice !  But  every  husbandman  is  living  in  sight  of  the  works 
of  a  diviner  artist ;  and  how  much  would  his  existence  be  ele- 
vated could  he  see  the  glory  which  shines  forth  in  their  forms, 
hues,  proportions,  and  moral  expression !  I  have  spoken  only 
of  the  beauty  of  nature ;  but  how  much  of  this  mysterious  charm 
is  found  in  the  elegant  arts,  and  especially  in  literature !  The 
best  books  have  most  beauty.  The  greatest  truths  are  wronged 
if  not  linked  with  beauty,  and  they  win  their  way  most  surely 
and  deeply  into  the  soul  when  arrayed  in  this  their  natural  and 
fit  attire.  Now  no  man  receives  the  true  culture  of  a  man  in 
whom  the  sensibility  to  the  beautiful  is  not  cherished;  and  I 
know  of  no  condition  in  life  from  which  it  should  be  excluded. 
Of  all  luxuries,  this  is  the  cheapest  and  most  at  hand ;  and  it 
seems  to  me  to  be  most  important  to  those  conditions  where 
coarse  labor  tends  to  give  a  grossness  to  the  mind.  From  the 
diflfusion  of  the  sense  of  beauty  in  ancient  Greece,  and  of  the 
taste  for  music  in  modern  Germany,  we  learn  that  the  people  at 
large  may  partake  of  refined  gratifications  which  have  hitherto 
been  thought  to  be  necessarily  restricted  to  a  few. 

What  beauty  is,  is  a  question  which  the  most  penetrating 
minds  have  not  satisfactorily  answered ;  nor,  were  I  able,  is  this 
the  place  for  discussing  it.  But  one  thing  I  would  say;  the 
beauty  of  the  outward  creation  is  intimately  related  to  the  lovely, 
grand,  interesting  attributes  of  the  soul.  It  is  the  emblem  or 
expression  of  these.  Matter  becomes  beautiful  to  us  when  it 
seems  to  lose  its  material  aspect,  its  inertness,  finiteness,  and 
grossness,  and  by  the  ethereal  lightness  of  its  forms  and  motions 
seems  to  approach  spirit ;  when  it  images  to  us  pure  and  gentle 
affections ;  when  it  spreads  out  into  a  vastness  which  is  a  shadow 
of  the  Infinite ;  or  when  in  more  awful  shapes  and  movements 
it  speaks  of  the  Omnipotent.     Thus  outward  beauty  is  akin  to 


30 


CHANNING 


something  deeper  and  unseen,  is  the  reflection  of  spiritual  at- 
tributes; and  of  consequence  the  way  to  see  and  feel  it  more 
and  more  keenly  is  to  cultivate  those  moral,  religious,  intel- 
lectual, and  social  principles  of  which  I  have  already  spoken, 
and  which  are  the  glory  of  the  spiritual  nature ;  and  I  name  this 
that  you  may  see,  what  I  am  anxious  to  show,  the  harmony 
which  subsists  among  all  branches  of  human  culture,  or  how 
each  forwards  and  is  aided  by  all. 

There  is  another  power,  which  each  man  should  cultivate  ac- 
cording to  his  ability,  but  which  is  very  much  neglected  in  the 
mass  of  the  people,  and  that  is,  the  power  of  utterance.  A  man 
was  not  made  to  shut  up  his  mind  in  itself ;  but  to  give  it  voice 
and  to  exchange  it  for  other  minds.  Speech  is  one  of  our  grand 
distinctions  from  the  brute.  Our  power  over  others  lies  not 
so  much  in  the  amount  of  thought  within  us  as  in  the  power  of 
bringing  it  out.  A  man  of  more  than  ordinary  intellectual 
vigor  may,  for  want  of  expression,  be  a  cipher,  without  sig- 
nificance, in  society.  And  not  only  does  a  man  influence  oth- 
ers, but  he  greatly  aids  his  own  intellect  by  giving  distinct  and 
forcible  utterance  to  his  thoughts.  We  understand  ourselves 
better,  our  conceptions  grow  clearer,  by  the  very  effort  to  make 
them  clear  to  another.  Our  social  rank,  too,  depends  a  good 
deal  on  our  power  of  utterance.  The  principal  distinction  be- 
tween what  are  called  gentlemen  and  the  vulgar  lies  in  this,  that 
the  latter  are  awkward  in  manners,  and  are  especially  wanting 
in  propriety,  clearness,  grace,  and  force  of  utterance.  A  man 
who  cannot  open  his  lips  without  breaking  a  rule  of  grammar, 
without  showing  in  his  dialect  or  brogue  or  uncouth  tones  his 
want  of  cultivation,  or  without  darkening  his  meaning  by  a 
confused,  unskilful  mode  of  communication,  cannot  take  the 
place  to  which,  perhaps,  his  native  good  sense  entitles  him.  To 
have  intercourse  with  respectable  people,  we  must  speak  their 
language.  On  this  account,  I  am  glad  that  grammar  and  a 
correct  pronunciation  are  taught  in  the  common  schools  of  this 
city.  These  are  not  trifles ;  nor  are  they  superfluous  to  any 
class  of  people.  They  give  a  man  access  to  social  advantages, 
on  which  his  improvement  very  much  depends.  The  power  of 
utterance  should  be  included  by  all  in  their  plans  of  self-culture. 

I  have  now  given  a  few  views  of  the  culture,  the  improve- 
ment, which  every  man  should  propose  to  himself.     I  have  all 


SELF-CULTURE 


31 


along  gone  on  the  principle  that  a  man  has  within  him  capacities 
of  growth  which  deserve  and  will  reward  intense,  unrelaxing 
toil.  I  do  not  look  on  a  human  being  as  a  machine,  made  to  be 
kept  in  action  by  a  foreign  force,  to  accomplish  an  unvarying 
succession  of  motions,  to  do  a  fixed  amount  of  work,  and  then 
to  fall  to  pieces  at  death,  but  as  a  being  of  free  spiritual  powers ; 
and  I  place  little  value  on  any  culture  but  that  which  aims  to 
bring  out  these,  and  to  give  them  perpetual  impulse  and  ex- 
pansion. I  am  aware  that  this  view  is  far  from  being  universal. 
The  common  notion  has  been  that  the  mass  of  the  people  need 
no  other  culture  than  is  necessary  to  fit  them  for  their  various 
trades ;  and,  though  this  error  is  passing  away,  it  is  far  from 
being  exploded.  But  the  ground  of  a  man's  culture  lies  in  his 
nature,  not  in  his  calling.  His  powers  are  to  be  unfolded  on 
account  of  their  inherent  dignity,  not  their  outward  direction. 
He  is  to  be  educated  because  he  is  a  man,  not  because  he  is  to 
make  shoes,  nails,  or  pins.  A  trade  is  plainly  not  the  great  end 
of  his  being,  for  his  mind  cannot  be  shut  up  in  it ;  his  force  of 
thought  cannot  be  exhausted  on  it.  He  has  faculties  to  which 
it  gives  no  action,  and  deep  wants  it  cannot  answer.  Poems, 
and  systems  of  theology  and  philosophy,  which  have  made  some 
noise  in  the  world,  have  been  wrought  at  the  work-bench  and 
amidst  the  toils  of  the  field.  How  often,  when  the  arms  are 
mechanieally  plying  a  trade,  does  the  mind,  lost  in  reverie  or 
day-dreams,  escape  to  the  ends  of  the  earth !  How  often  does 
the  pious  heart  of  woman  mingle  the  greatest  of  all  thoughts, 
that  of  God,  with  household  drudgery !  Undoubtedly  a  man  is 
to  perfect  himself  in  his  trade,  for  by  it  he  is  to  earn  his  bread 
and  to  serve  the  community.  But  bread  or  subsistence  is  not 
his  highest  good ;  for,  if  it  were,  his  lot  would  be  harder  than 
that  of  the  inferior  animals,  for  whom  nature  spreads  a  table 
and  weaves  a  wardrobe,  without  a  care  of  their  own.  Nor  was 
he  made  chiefly  to  minister  to  the  wants  of  the  community.  A 
rational,  moral  being  cannot,  without  infinite  wrong,  be  con- 
verted into  a  mere  instrument  of  others'  gratification.  He  is 
necessarily  an  end,  not  a  means.  A  mind,  in  which  are  sown 
the  seeds  of  wisdom,  disinterestedness,  firmness  of  purpose,  and 
piety,  is  worth  more  than  all  the  outward  material  interests  of 
a  world.  It  exists  for  itself,  for  its  own  perfection,  and  must 
not  be  enslaved  to  its  own  or  others'  animal  wants.     You  tell 


32  CHANNING 

me  that  a  liberal  culture  is  needed  for  men  who  are  to  fill  high 
stations,  but  not  for  such  as  are  doomed  to  vulgar  labor.  I  an- 
swer, that  man  is  a  greater  name  than  president  or  king.  Truth 
and  goodness  are  equally  precious  in  whatever  sphere  they  are 
found.  Besides,  men  of  all  conditions  sustain  equally  the  rela- 
tions which  give  birth  to  the  highest  virtues  and  demand  the 
highest  powers.  The  laborer  is  not  a  mere  laborer.  He  has 
close,  tender,  responsible  connections  with  God  and  his  fellow- 
creatures.  He  is  a  son,  husband,  father,  friend,  and  Christian. 
He  belongs  to  a  home,  a  country,  a  church,  a  race ;  and  is  such 
a  man  to  be  cultivated  only  for  a  trade  ?  Was  he  not  sent  into 
the  world  for  a  great  work?  To  educate  a  child  perfectly  re- 
quires profounder  thought,  greater  wisdom,  than  to  govern  a 
State ;  and  for  this  plain  reason,  that  the  interests  and  wants  of 
the  latter  are  more  superficial,  coarser,  and  more  obvious  than 
the  spiritual  capacities,  the  growth  of  thought  and  feeling,  and 
the  subtle  laws  of  the  mind,  which  must  all  be  studied  and  com- 
prehended before  the  work  of  education  can  be  thoroughly  per- 
formed; and  yet  to  all  conditions  this  greatest  work  on  earth 
is  equally  committed  by  God.  What  plainer  proof  do  we  need 
that  a  higher  culture  than  has  yet  been  dreamed  of  is  needed 
by  our  whole  race  ? 

II.  I  now  proceed  to  inquire  into  the  means  by  which  the  self- 
culture  just  described  may  be  promoted ;  and  here  I  know  not 
where  to  begin.  The  subject  is  so  extensive,  as  well  as  impor- 
tant, that  I  feel  myself  unable  to  do  any  justice  to  it,  especially 
in  the  limits  to  which  I  am  confined.  I  beg  you  to  consider  me 
as  presenting  but  hints,  and  such  as  have  offered  themselves 
with  very  little  research  to  my  own  mind. 

And,  first,  the  great  means  of  self-culture,  that  which  includes 
all  the  rest,  is  to  fasten  on  this  culture  as  our  great  end,  to  de- 
termine deliberately  and  solemnly  that  we  will  make  the  most 
and  the  best  of  the  powers  which  God  has  given  us.  Without 
this  resolute  purpose,  the  best  means  are  worth  little,  and  with 
it  the  poorest  become  mighty.  You  may  see  thousands,  with 
every  opportunity  of  improvement  which  wealth  can  gather, 
with  teachers,  libraries,  and  apparatus,  bringing  nothing  to 
pass,  and  others,  with  few  helps,  doing  wonders;  and  simply 
because  the  latter  are  in  earnest,  and  the  former  not.  A  man 
in  earnest  finds  means,  or,  if  he  cannot  find,  creates  them.     A 


SELF-CULTURE  33 

vigorous  purpose  makes  much  out  of  little,  breathes  power  into 
weak  instruments,  disarms  difficulties,  and  even  turns  them 
into  assistances.  Every  condition  has  means  of  progress,  if 
we  have  spirit  enough  to  use  them.  Some  volumes  have  re- 
cently been  published,  giving  examples  or  histories  of  "  knowl- 
edge acquired  under  difficulties ; "  and  it  is  most  animating  to 
see  in  these  what  a  resolute  man  can  do  for  himself.  A  great 
idea,  like  this  of  self-culture,  if  seized  on  clearly  and  vigorously, 
burns  like  a  living  coal  in  the  soul.  He  who  deliberately  adopts 
a  great  end,  has,  by  this  act,  half  accomplished  it,  has  scaled  the 
chief  barrier  to  success. 

One  thing  is  essential  to  the  strong  purpose  of  self-culture 
now  insisted  on;  namely,  faith  in  the  practicableness  of  this 
culture.  A  great  object,  to  awaken  resolute  choice,  must  be 
seen  to  be  within  our  reach.  The  truth,  that  progress  is  the 
very  end  of  our  being,  must  not  be  received  as  a  tradition,  but 
comprehended  and  felt  as  a  reahty.  Our  minds  are  apt  to  pine 
and  starve,  by  being  imprisoned  within  what  we  have  already 
attained.  A  true  faith,  looking  up  to  something  better,  catching 
glimpses  of  a  distant  perfection,  prophesying  to  ourselves  im- 
provements proportioned  to  our  conscientious  labors,  gives  en- 
ergy of  purpose,  gives  wings  to  the  soul ;  and  this  faith  will 
continually  grow,  by  acquainting  ourselves  with  our  own  nat- 
ure, and  with  the  promises  of  divine  help  and  immortal  life 
which  abound  in  revelation. 

Some  are  discouraged  from  proposing  to  themselves  im- 
provement, by  the  false  notion  that  the  study  of  books,  which 
their  situation  denies  them,  is  the  all-important  and  only  suffi- 
cient means.  Let  such  consider  that  the  grand  volumes,  of 
which  all  our  books  are  transcripts — I  mean  nature,  revelation, 
the  human  soul,  and  human  life — are  freely  unfolded  to  every 
eye.  The  great  sources  of  wisdom  are  experience  and  obser- 
vation ;  and  these  are  denied  to  none.  To  open  and  fix  our  eyes 
upon  what  passes  without  and  within  us  is  the  most  fruitful 
study.  Books  are  chiefly  useful  as  they  help  us  to  interpret 
what  we  see  and  experience.  When  they  absorb  men,  as  they 
sometimes  do,  and  turn  them  from  observation  of  nature  and 
life,  they  generate  a  learned  folly,  for  which  the  plain  sense  of 
the  laborer  could  not  be  exchanged  but  at  great  loss.  It  de- 
serves attention  that  the  greatest  men  have  been  formed  without 
3 


34  CHANNING 

the  studies  which  at  present  are  thought  by  many  most  needful 
to  improvement.  Homer,  Plato,  Demosthenes,  never  heard  the 
name  of  chemistry,  and  knew  less  of  the  solar  system  than  a  boy 
in  our  common  schools.  Not  that  these  sciences  are  unim- 
portant ;  but  the  lesson  is,  that  human  improvement  never  wants 
the  means,  where  the  purpose  of  it  is  deep  and  earnest  in  the 
soul. 

The  purpose  of  self-culture,  this  is  the  life  and  strength  of  all 
the  methods  we  use  for  our  own  elevation.  I  reiterate  this 
principle  on  account  of  its  great  importance ;  and  I  would  add 
a  remark  to  prevent  its  misapprehension.  When  I  speak  of  the 
purpose  of  self-culture,  I  mean  that  it  should  be  sincere.  In 
other  words,  we  must  make  self-culture  really  and  truly  our 
end,  or  choose  it  for  its  own  sake,  and  not  merely  as  a  means  or 
instrument  of  something  else.  And  here  I  touch  a  common  and 
very  pernicious  error.  Not  a  few  persons  desire  to  improve 
themselves  only  to  get  property  and  to  rise  in  the  world;  but 
such  do  not  properly  choose  improvement,  but  something  out- 
ward and  foreign  to  themselves;  and  so  low  an  impulse  can 
produce  only  a  stinted,  partial,  uncertain  growth.  A  man,  as 
I  have  said,  is  to  cultivate  himself  because  he  is  a  man.  He  is 
to  start  with  the  conviction  that  there  is  something  greater  with- 
in him  than  in  the  whole  material  creation,  than  in  all  the  worlds 
which  press  on  the  eye  and  ear ;  and  that  inward  improvements 
have  a  worth  and  dignity  in  themselves  quite  distinct  from  the 
power  they  give  over  outward  things.  Undoubtedly  a  man  is 
to  labor  to  better  his  condition,  but  first  to  better  himself.  If 
he  knows  no  higher  use  of  his  mind  than  to  invent  and  drudge 
for  his  body,  his  case  is  desperate  as  far  as  culture  is  con- 
cerned. 

In  these  remarks,  I  do  not  mean  to  recommend  to  the  laborer 
indifference  to  his  outward  lot.  I  hold  it  important  that  every 
man  in  every  class  should  possess  the  means  of  comfort,  of 
health,  of  neatness  in  food  and  apparel,  and  of  occasional  re- 
tirement and  leisure.  These  are  good  in  themselves,  to  be 
sought  for  their  own  sakes ;  and,  still  more,  they  are  important 
means  of  the  self-culture  for  which  I  am  pleading.  A  clean, 
comfortable  dwelling,  with  wholesome  meals,  is  no  small  aid 
to  intellectual  and  moral  progress.  A  man  living  in  a  damp 
cellar  or  a  garret  open  to  rain  and  snow,  breathing  the  foul  air 


SELF-CULTURE  35 

of  a  filthy  room,  and  striving  without  success  to  appease  hunger 
on  scanty  or  unsavory  food,  is  in  danger  of  abandoning  himself 
to  a  desperate,  selfish  recklessness.  Improve,  then,  your  lot. 
Multiply  comforts,  and,  still  more,  get  v^ealth  if  you  can  by 
honorable  means,  and  if  it  do  not  cost  too  much.  A  true  culti- 
vation of  the  mind  is  fitted  to  forward  you  in  your  worldly  con- 
cerns, and  you  ought  to  use  it  for  this  end.  Only,  beware  lest 
this  end  master  you ;  lest  your  motives  sink  as  your  condition 
improves ;  lest  you  fall  victims  to  the  miserable  passion  of  vying 
with  those  around  you  in  show,  luxury,  and  expense.  Cherish 
a  true  respect  for  yourselves.  Feel  that  your  nature  is  worth 
more  than  everything  which  is  foreign  to  you.  He  who  has 
not  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  own  rational  and  spiritual  being, 
of  something  within  himself  superior  to  the  world  and  allied 
to  the  Divinity,  wants  the  true  spring  of  that  purpose  of  self- 
culture  on  which  I  have  insisted  as  the  first  of  all  the  means  of 
improvement. 

I  proceed  to  another  important  means  of  self-culture ;  and  this 
is  the  control  of  the  animal  appetites.  To  raise  the  moral  and 
intellectual  nature,  we  must  put  down  the  animal.  SensuaHty 
is  the  abyss  in  which  very  many  souls  are  plunged  and  lost. 
Among  the  most  prosperous  classes  what  a  vast  amount  of  in- 
tellectual life  is  drowned  in  luxurious  excesses !  It  is  one  great 
curse  of  wealth,  that  it  is  used  to  pamper  the  senses ;  and  among 
the  poorer  classes,  though  luxury  is  wanting,  yet  a  gross  feed- 
ing often  prevails,  under  which  the  spirit  is  whelmed.  It  is 
a  sad  sight  to  walk  through  our  streets  and  to  see  how  many 
countenances  bear  marks  of  a  lethargy  and  a  brutal  coarseness, 
induced  by  unrestrained  indulgence.  Whoever  would  cultivate 
the  soul  must  restrain  the  appetites.  I  am  not  an  advocate  for 
the  doctrine  that  animal  food  was  not  meant  for  man ;  but  that 
this  is  used  among  us  to  excess,  that  as  a  people  we  should  gain 
much  in  cheerfulness,  activity,  and  buoyancy  of  mind,  by  less 
gross  and  stimulating  food,  I  am  strongly  inclined  to  believe. 
Above  all,  let  me  urge  on  those  who  would  bring  out  and  ele- 
vate their  higher  nature  to  abstain  from  the  use  of  spirituous 
liquors.  This  bad  habit  is  distinguished  from  all  others  by  the 
ravages  it  makes  on  the  reason,  the  intellect ;  and  this  effect  is 
produced  to  a  mournful  extent,  even  when  drunkenness  is  es- 
caped.    Not  a  few  men,  called  temperate,  and  who  have  thought 


36  CHANNING 

themselves  such,  have  learned,  on  abstaining  from  the  use  of 
ardent  spirits,  that  for  years  their  minds  had  been  clouded, 
impaired  by  moderate  drinking,  without  their  suspecting  the 
injury.  Multitudes  in  this  city  are  bereft  of  half  their  intel- 
lectual energy  by  a  degree  of  indulgence  which  passes  for  in- 
nocent. Of  all  the  foes  of  the  working  class,  this  is  the  dead- 
liest. Nothing  has  done  more  to  keep  down  this  class,  to 
destroy  their  self-respect,  to  rob  them  of  their  just  influence  in 
the  community,  to  render  profitless  the  means  of  improvement 
within  their  reach,  than  the  use  of  ardent  spirits  as  a  drink. 
They  are  called  on  to  withstand  this  practice,  as  they  regard 
their  honor,  and  would  take  their  just  place  in  society.  They 
are  under  solemn  obligations  to  give  their  sanction  to  every 
effort  for  its  suppression.  They  ought  to  regard  as  their  worst 
enemies  (though  unintentionally  such),  as  the  enemies  of  their 
rights,  dignity,  and  influence,  the  men  who  desire  to  flood  city 
and  country  with  distilled  poison.  I  lately  visited  a  flourishing 
village,  and  on  expressing  to  one  of  the  respected  inhabitants 
the  pleasure  I  felt  in  witnessing  so  many  signs  of  progress,  he 
replied  that  one  of  the  causes  of  the  prosperity  I  witnessed  was 
the  disuse  of  ardent  spirits  by  the  people.  And  this  reforma- 
tion we  may  be  assured  wrought  something  higher  than  out- 
ward prosperity.  In  almost  every  family  so  improved,  we  can- 
not doubt  that  the  capacities  of  the  parent  for  intellectual  and 
moral  improvement  were  enlarged,  and  the  means  of  education 
made  more  effectual  to  the  child.  I  call  on  workingmen  to  take 
hold  of  the  cause  of  temperance  as  peculiarly  their  cause.  These 
remarks  are  the  more  needed  in  consequence  of  the  efforts  made 
far  and  wide  to  annul  at  the  present  moment  a  recent  law  for  the 
suppression  of  the  sale  of  ardent  spirits  in  such  quantities  as 
favor  intemperance.  I  know  that  there  are  intelligent  and  good 
men  who  believe  that,  in  enacting  this  law,  government  tran- 
scended its  limits,  left  its  true  path,  and  established  a  precedent 
for  legislative  interference  with  all  our  pursuits  and  pleasures. 
No  one  here  looks  more  jealously  on  government  than  myself. 
But  I  maintain  that  this  is  a  case  which  stands  by  itself,  which 
can  be  confounded  with  no  other,  and  on  which  government, 
from  its  very  nature  and  end,  is  peculiarly  bound  to  act.  Let 
it  never  be  forgotten  that  the  great  end  of  government,  its  high- 
est function,  is,  not  to  make  roads,  grant  charters,  originate 


SELF-CULTURE 


37 


improvements,  but  to  prevent  or  repress  crimes  against  indi- 
vidual rights  and  social  order.  For  this  end  it  ordains  a  penal 
code,  erects  prisons,  and  inflicts  fearful  punishments.  Now, 
if  it  be  true  that  a  vast  proportion  of  the  crimes  which  govern- 
ment is  instituted  to  prevent  and  repress  have  their  origin  in 
the  use  of  ardent  spirits ;  if  our  poor-houses,  work-houses,  jails, 
and  penitentiaries,  are  tenanted  in  a  great  degree  by  those  whose 
first  and  chief  impulse  to  crime  came  from  the  distillery  and 
dram-shop ;  if  murder  and  theft,  the  most  fearful  outrages  on 
property  and  life,  are  most  frequently  the  issues  and  consum- 
mation of  intemperance,  is  not  government  bound  to  restrain 
by  legislation  the  vending  of  the  stimulus  to  these  terrible  social 
wrongs  ?  Is  government  never  to  act  as  a  parent,  never  to  re- 
move the  causes  or  occasions  of  wrong-doing  ?  Has  it  but  one 
instrument  for  repressing  crime ;  namely,  public,  infamous  pun- 
ishment— an  evil  only  inferior  to  crime?  Is  government  a 
usurper,  does  it  wander  beyond  its  sphere,  by  imposing  re- 
straints on  an  article  which  does  no  imaginable  good,  which  can 
plead  no  benefit  conferred  on  body  or  mind,  which  unfits  the 
citizen  for  the  discharge  of  his  duty  to  his  country,  and  which, 
above  all,  stirs  up  men  to  the  perpetration  of  most  of  the  crimes 
from  which  it  is  the  highest  and  most  solemn  office  of  govern- 
ment to  protect  society? 

I  come  now  to  another  important  measure  of  self-culture, 
and  this  is,  intercourse  with  superior  minds.  I  have  insisted 
on  our  own  activity  as  essential  to  our  progress ;  but  we  were 
not  made  to  live  or  advance  alone.  Society  is  as  needful  to  us 
as  air  or  food.  A  child  doomed  to  utter  loneliness,  growing  up 
without  sight  or  sound  of  human  beings,  would  not  put  forth 
equal  power  with  many  brutes ;  and  a  man,  never  brought  into 
contact  with  minds  superior  to  his  own,  will  probably  run  one 
and  the  same  dull  round  of  thought  and  action  to  the  end  of  life. 

It  is  chiefly  through  books  that  we  enjoy  intercourse  with 
superior  minds,  and  these  invaluable  means  of  communication 
are  in  the  reach  of  all.  In  the  best  books  great  men  talk  to  us, 
give  us  their  most  precious  thoughts,  and  pour  their  souls  into 
ours.  God  be  thanked  for  books.  They  are  the  voices  of  the 
distant  and*the  dead,  and  make  us  heirs  of  the  spiritual  life  of 
past  ages.  Books  are  the  true  levellers.  They  give  to  all  who 
will  faithfully  use  them  the  society,  the  spiritual  presence,  of 


38  CHANNING 

the  best  and  greatest  of  our  race.  No  matter  how  poor  I  am. 
No  matter  though  the  prosperous  of  my  own  time  will  not  enter 
my  obscure  dwelling.  If  the  sacred  writers  will  enter  and  take 
up  their  abode  under  my  roof ;  if  Milton  will  cross  my  threshold 
to  sing  to  me  of  paradise,  and  Shakespeare  to  open  to  me  the 
worlds  of  imagination  and  the  workings  of  the  human  heart, 
and  Franklin  to  enrich  me  with  his  practical  wisdom,  I  shall  not 
pine  for  want  of  intellectual  companionship,  and  I  may  become 
a  cultivated  man  though  excluded  from  what  is  called  the  best 
society  in  the  place  where  I  live. 

To  make  this  means  of  culture  effectual  a  man  must  select 
good  books,  such  as  have  been  written  by  right-minded  and 
strong-minded  men,  real  thinkers,  who,  instead  of  diluting  by 
repetition  what  others  say,  have  something  to  say  for  them- 
selves, and  write  to  give  relief  to  full,  earnest  souls ;  and  these 
works  must  not  be  skimmed  over  for  amusement,  but  read  with 
fixed  attention  and  a  reverential  love  of  truth.  In  selecting 
books  we  may  be  aided  much  by  those  who  have  studied  more 
than  ourselves.  But,  after  all,  it  is  best  to  be  determined  in  this 
particular  a  good  deal  by  our  own  tastes.  The  best  books  for  a 
man  are  not  always  those  which  the  wise  recommend,  but 
oftener  those  which  meet  the  peculiar  wants,  the  natural  thirst 
of  his  mind,  and  therefore  awaken  interest  and  rivet  thought. 
And  here  it  may  be  well  to  observe,  not  only  in  regard  to  books, 
but  in  other  respects,  that  self-culture  must  vary  with  the  in- 
dividual. All  means  do  not  equally  suit  us  all.  A  man  must 
unfold  himself  freely,  and  should  respect  the  peculiar  gifts  or 
biases  by  which  nature  has  distinguished  him  from  others. 
Self-culture  does  not  demand  the  sacrifice  of  individuality.  It 
does  not  regularly  apply  an  established  machinery,  for  the  sake 
of  torturing  every  man  into  one  rigid  shape,  called  perfection. 
As  the  human  countenance,  with  the  same  features  in  us  all,  is 
diversified  without  end  in  the  race,  and  is  never  the  same  in  any 
two  individuals,  so  the  human  soul,  with  the  same  grand  pow- 
ers and  laws,  expands  into  an  infinite  variety  of  forms,  and 
would  be  woefully  stinted  by  modes  of  culture  requiring  all  men 
to  learn  the  same  lesson  or  to  bend  to  the  same  rules. 

I  know  how  hard  it  is  to  some  men,  especially  to  those  who 
spend  much  time  in  manual  labor,  to  fix  attention  on  books. 
Let  them  strive  to  overcome  the  difficulty  by  choosing  subjects 


SELF-CULTURE  39 

of  deep  interest,  or  by  reading  in  company  with  those  whom 
they  love.  Nothing  can  supply  the  place  of  books.  They  are 
cheering  or  soothing  companions  in  solitude,  illness,  affliction. 
The  wealth  of  both  continents  would  not  compensate  for  the 
good  they  impart.  Let  every  man,  if  possible,  gather  some 
good  books  under  his  roof,  and  obtain  access  for  himself  and 
family  to  some  social  library.  Almost  any  luxury  should  be 
sacrificed  to  this. 

One  of  the  very  interesting  features  of  our  times  is  the  mul- 
tiplication of  books,  and  their  distribution  through  all  condi- 
tions of  society.  At  a  small  expense  a  man  can  now  possess 
himself  of  the  most  precious  treasures  of  English  literature. 
Books,  once  confined  to  a  few  by  their  costliness,  are  now  ac- 
cessible to  the  multitude ;  and  in  this  way  a  change  of  habits  is 
going  on  in  society,  highly  favorable  to  the  culture  of  the  peo- 
ple. Instead  of  depending  on  casual  rumor  and  loose  conversa- 
tion for  most  of  their  knowledge  and  objects  of  thought ;  instead 
of  forming  their  judgments  in  crowds,  and  receiving  their  chief 
excitement  from  the  voice  of  neighbors,  men  are  now  learning 
to  study  and  reflect  alone,  to  follow  out  subjects  continuously, 
to  determine  for  themselves  what  shall  engage  their  minds,  and 
to  call  to  their  aid  the  knowledge,  original  views,  and  reason- 
ings of  men  of  all  countries  and  ages ;  and  the  results  must  be, 
a  deliberateness  and  independence  of  judgment,  and  a  thor- 
oughness and  extent  of  information,  unknown  in  former  times. 
The  diffusion  of  these  silent  teachers,  books,  through  the  whole 
community,  is  to  work  greater  effects  than  artillery,  machinery, 
and  legislation.  Its  peaceful  agency  is  to  supersede  stormy 
revolutions.  The  culture  which  it  is  to  spread,  whilst  an  un- 
speakable good  to  the  individual,  is  also  to  become  the  stability 
of  nations. 

Another  important  means  of  self-culture  is  to  free  ourselves 
from  the  power  of  human  opinion  and  example,  except  as  far 
as  these  is  sanctioned  by  our  own  deliberate  judgment.  We  are 
all  prone  to  keep  the  level  of  those  we  live  with,  to  repeat  their 
words,  and  dress  our  minds  as  well  as  bodies  after  their  fashion ; 
and  hence  the  spiritless  tameness  of  our  characters  and  lives. 
Our  greatest  danger  is  not  from  the  grossly  wicked  around  us, 
but  from  the  worldly,  unreflecting  multitude,  who  are  borne 
along  as  a  stream  by  foreign  impulse,  and  bear  us  along  with 


40  CHANNING 

them.  Even  the  influence  of  superior  minds  may  harm  us,  by 
bowing  us  to  servile  acquiescence  and  damping  our  spiritual 
activity.  The  great  use  of  intercourse  with  other  minds  is  to 
stir  up  our  own,  to  whet  our  appetite  for  truth,  to  carry  our 
thoughts  beyond  their  old  tracks.  We  need  connections  with 
great  thinkers  to  make  us  thinkers  too.  One  of  the  chief  arts 
of  self-culture  is  to  unite  the  child-like  teachableness,  which 
gratefully  welcomes  light  from  every  human  being  who  can 
give  it,  with  manly  resistance  of  opinions  however  current,  of 
influences  however  generally  revered,  which  do  not  approve 
themselves  to  our  deliberate  judgment.  You  ought,  indeed, 
patiently  and  conscientiously  to  strengthen  your  reason  by  other 
men's  intelligence,  but  you  must  not  prostrate  it  before  them. 
Especially  if  there  springs  up  within  you  any  view  of  God's 
word  or  universe,  any  sentiment  or  aspiration  which  seems  to 
you  of  a  higher  order  than  what  you  meet  abroad,  give  reverent 
heed  to  it ;  inquire  into  it  earnestly,  solemnly.  Do  not  trust  it 
blindly,  for  it  may  be  an  illusion;  but  it  may  be  the  Divinity 
moving  within  you,  a  new  revelation,  not  supernatural,  but  still 
most  precious,  of  truth  or  duty ;  and  if,  after  inquiry,  it  so  ap- 
pear, then  let  no  clamor,  or  scorn,  or  desertion  turn  you  from 
it.  Be  true  to  your  own  highest  convictions.  Intimations  from 
our  own  souls  of  something  more  perfect  than  others  teach,  if 
faithfully  followed,  give  us  a  consciousness  of  spiritual  force 
and  progress  never  experienced  by  the  vulgar  of  high  life  or 
low  hfe,  who  march,  as  they  are  drilled,  to  the  step  of  their 
times. 

Some,  I  know,  will  wonder  that  I  should  think  the  mass  of 
the  people  capable  of  such  intimations  and  glimpses  of  truth 
as  I  have  just  supposed.  These  are  commonly  thought  to  be 
the  prerogative  of  men  of  genius,  who  seem  to  be  born  to  give 
law  to  the  minds  of  the  multitude.  Undoubtedly  nature  has 
her  nobility,  and  sends  forth  a  few  to  be  eminently  "  lights  of 
the  world."  But  it  is  also  true  that  a  portion  of  the  same  divine 
fire  is  given  to  all ;  for  the  many  could  not  receive  with  a  loving 
reverence  the  quickening  influences  of  the  few,  were  there  not 
essentially  the  same  spiritual  life  in  both.  The  minds  of  the 
multitude  are  not  masses  of  passive  matter,  created  to  receive 
impressions  unresistingly  from  abroad.  They  are  not  wholly 
shaped  by  foreign  instruction ;  but  have  a  native  force,  a  spring 


SELF-CULTURE  41 

of  thought  in  themselves.  Even  the  child's  mind  outruns  its 
lessons,  and  overflows  in  questionings  which  bring  the  wisest  to 
a  stand.  Even  the  child  starts  the  great  problems,  which 
philosophy  has  labored  to  solve  for  ages.  But  on  this  subject 
I  cannot  now  enlarge.  Let  me  only  say  that  the  power  of  orig- 
inal thought  is  particularly  manifested  in  those  who  thirst  for 
progress,  who  are  bent  on  unfolding  their  whole  nature.  A 
man  who  wakes  up  to  the  consciousness  of  having  been  created 
for  progress  and  perfection  looks  with  new  eyes  on  himself  and 
on  the  world  in  which  he  lives.  This  great  truth  stirs  the  soul 
from  its  depths,  breaks  up  old  associations  of  ideas,  and  estab- 
lishes new  ones,  just  as  a  mighty  agent  of  chemistry,  brought 
into  contact  with  natural  substances,  dissolves  the  old  affinities 
which  had  bound  their  particles  together,  and  arranges  them 
anew.  This  truth  particularly  aids  us  to  penetrate  the  mys- 
teries of  human  life.  By  revealing  to  us  the  end  of  our  being, 
it  helps  us  to  comprehend  more  and  more  the  wonderful,  the 
infinite  system,  to  which  we  belong.  A  man  in  the  common 
walks  of  life,  who  has  faith  in  perfection,  in  the  unfolding  of 
the  human  spirit,  as  the  great  purpose  of  God,  possesses  more 
the  secret  of  the  universe,  perceives  more  the  harmonies  or 
mutual  adaptations  of  the  world  without  and  the  world  within 
him,  is  a  wiser  interpreter  of  Providence,  and  reads  nobler  les- 
sons of  duty  in  the  events  which  pass  before  him,  than  the  pro- 
foundest  philosopher  who  wants  this  grand  central  truth.  Thus 
illuminations,  inward  suggestions,  are  not  confined  to  a  favored 
few,  but  visit  all  who  devote  themselves  to  a  generous  self- 
culture. 

Another  means  of  self-culture  may  be  found  by  every  man  in 
his  condition  or  occupation,  be  it  what  it  may.  Had  I  time,  I 
might  go  through  all  conditions  of  life,  from  the  most  conspicu- 
ous to  the  most  obscure,  and  might  show  how  each  furnishes 
continual  aids  to  improvement.  But  I  will  take  one  example, 
and  that  is,  of  a  man  living  by  manual  labor.  This  may  be 
made  the  means  of  self-culture.  For  instance,  in  almost  all 
labor,  a  man  exchanges  his  strength  for  an  equivalent  in  the 
form  of  wages,  purchase-money,  or  some  other  product.  In 
other  words,  labor  is  a  system  of  contracts,  bargains,  imposing 
mutual  obligations.  Now  the  man  who,  in  working,  no  matter 
in  what  way,  strives  perpetually  to  fulfil  his  obligations  thor- 


43  CHANNING 

oughly,  to  do  his  whole  work  faithfully,  to  be  honest,  not  be- 
cause honesty  is  the  best  policy,  but  for  the  sake  of  justice,  and 
that  he  may  render  to  every  man  his  due,  such  a  laborer  is  con- 
tinually building  up  in  himself  one  of  the  greatest  principles 
of  morality  and  religion.  Every  blow  on  the  anvil,  on  the  earth, 
or  whatever  material  he  works  upon,  contributes  something  to 
the  perfection  of  his  nature. 

Nor  is  this  all.  Labor  is  a  school  of  benevolence  as  well  as 
justice.  A  man,  to  support  himself,  must  serve  others.  He 
must  do  or  produce  something  for  their  comfort  or  gratification. 
This  is  one  of  the  beautiful  ordinations  of  Providence,  that,  to 
get  a  living,  a  man  must  be  useful.  Now  this  usefulness  ought 
to  be  an  end  in  his  labor  as  truly  as  to  earn  his  living.  He 
ought  to  think  of  the  benefit  of  those  he  works  for,  as  well  as 
of  his  own ;  and  in  so  doing,  in  desiring  amidst  his  sweat  and 
toil  to  serve  others  as  well  as  himself,  he  is  exercising  and  grow- 
ing in  benevolence,  as  truly  as  if  he  were  distributing  bounty 
with  a  large  hand  to  the  poor.  Such  a  motive  hallows  and  dig- 
nifies the  commonest  pursuit.^  It  is  strange  that  laboring  men 
do  not  think  more  of  the  vast  usefulness  of  their  toils,  and  take 
a  benevolent  pleasure  in  them  on  this  account.  This  beautiful 
city,  with  its  houses,  furniture,  markets,  public  walks,  and  num- 
berless accommodations,  has  grown  up  under  the  hands  of 
artisans  and  other  laborers ;  and  ought  they  not  to  take  a  dis- 
interested joy  in  their  work  ?  One  would  think  that  a  carpen- 
ter or  mason,  on  passing  a  house  which  he  had  reared,  would 
say  to  himself,  "  This  work  of  mine  is  giving  comfort  and  en- 
joyment every  day  and  hour  to  a  family,  and  will  continue  to 
be  a  kindly  shelter,  a  domestic  gathering-place,  an  abode  of 
affection,  for  a  century  or  more  after  I  sleep  in  the  dust ;  "  and 
ought  not  a  generous  satisfaction  to  spring  up  at  the  thought? 
It  is  by  thus  interweaving  goodness  with  common  labor  that 
we  give  it  strength,  and  make  it  a  habit  of  the  soul. 

Again.  Labor  may  be  so  performed  as  to  be  a  high  impulse 
to  the  mind.  Be  a  man's  vocation  what  it  may,  his  rule  should 
be  to  do  its  duties  perfectly,  to  do  the  best  he  can,  and  thus  to 
make  perpetual  progress  in  his  art.  In  other  words,  perfection 
should  be  proposed ;  and  this  I  urge  not  only  for  its  usefulness 
to  society,  nor  for  the  sincere  pleasure  which  a  man  takes  in 
seeing  a  work  well  done.     This  is  an  important  means  of  self- 


SELF-CULTURE 


43 


culture.  In  this  way  the  idea  of  perfection  takes  root  in  the 
mind,  and  spreads  far  beyond  the  man's  trade.  He  gets  a 
tendency  towards  completeness  in  whatever  he  undertakes. 
Slack,  slovenly  performance  in  any  department  of  life  is 
more  apt  to  offend  him.  His  standard  of  action  rises,  and 
everything  is  better  done  for  his  thoroughness  in  his  common 
vocation. 

There  is  one  circumstance  attending  all  conditions  of  life 
which  may  and  ought  to  be  turned  to  the  use  of  self-culture. 
Every  condition,  be  it  what  it  may,  has  hardships,  hazards, 
pains.  We  try  to  escape  them ;  we  pine  for  a  sheltered  lot,  for 
a  smooth  path,  for  cheering  friends,  and  unbroken  success.  But 
Providence  ordains  storms,  disasters,  hostilities,  sufferings; 
and  the  great  question,  whether  we  shall  live  to  any  purpose  or 
not,  whether  we  shall  grow  strong  in  mind  and  heart,  or  be 
weak  and  pitiable,  depends  on  nothing  so  much  as  on  our  use 
of  these  adverse  circumstances.  Outward  evils  are  designed 
to-  school  our  passions,  and  to  rouse  our  faculties  and  virtues 
into  intenser  action.  Sometimes  they  seem  to  create  new  pow- 
ers. Difficulty  is  the  element,  and  resistance  the  true  work  of 
a  m^an.  Self -culture  never  goes  on  so  fast  as  when  embar- 
rassed circumstances,  the  opposition  of  men  or  the  elements, 
unexpected  changes  of  the  times,  or  other  forms  of  suffering, 
instead  of  disheartening,  throw  us  on  our  inward  resources, 
turn  us  for  strength  to  God,  clear  up  to  us  the  great  purpose  of 
life,  and  inspire  calm  resolution.  No  greatness  or  goodness  is 
worth  much  unless  tried  in  these  fires.  Hardships  are  not  on 
this  account  to  be  sought  for.  They  come  fast  enough  of  them- 
selves, and  we  are  in  more  danger  of  sinking  under  than  of  need- 
ing them.  But  when  God  sends  them,  they  are  noble  means  of 
self-culture,  and  as  such  let  us  meet  and  bear  them  cheerfully. 
Thus  all  parts  of  our  condition  may  be  pressed  into  the  service 
of  self-improvement. 

I  have  time  to  consider  but  one  more  means  of  self-culture. 
We  find  it  in  our  free  government,  in  our  political  relations  and 
duties.  It  is  a  great  benefit  of  free  institutions,  that  they  do 
much  to  awaken  and  keep  in  action  a  nation's  mind.  We  are 
told  that  the  education  of  the  multitude  is  necessary  to  the  sup- 
port of  a  republic;  but  it  is  equally  true  that  a  republic  is  a 
powerful  means  of  educating  the  multitude.     It  is  the  people's 


44  CHANNING 

university.  In  a  free  state,  solemn  responsibilities  are  imposed 
on  every  citizen ;  great  subjects  are  to  be  discussed ;  great  inter- 
ests to  be  decided.  The  individual  is  called  to  determine  meas- 
ures affecting  the  well-being  of  millions  and  the  destinies  of 
posterity.  He  must  consider  not  only  the  internal  relations  of 
his  native  land,  but  its  connection  with  foreign  states,  and  judge 
of  a  policy  which  touches  the  whole  civiHzed  world.  He  is 
called,  by  his  participation  in  the  national  sovereignty,  to  cher- 
ish public  spirit,  a  regard  to  the  general  weal.  A  man  who 
purposes  to  discharge  faithfully  these  obligations  is  carrying 
on  a  generous  self-culture.  The  great  public  questions  which 
divide  opinion  around  him  and  provoke  earnest  discussion,  of 
necessity  invigorate  his  intellect,  and  accustom  him  to  look  be- 
yond himself.  He  grows  up  to  a  robustness,  force,  enlarge- 
ment of  mind,  unknown  under  despotic  rule. 

It  may  be  said  that  I  am  describing  what  free  institutions 
ought  to  do  for  the  character  of  the  individual,  not  their  actual 
effects;  and  the  objection,  I  must  own,  is  too  true.  Our  insti- 
tutions do  not  cultivate  us,  as  they  might  and  should ;  and  the 
chief  cause  of  the  failure  is  plain.  It  is  the  strength  of  party 
spirit ;  and  so  blighting  is  its  influence,  so  fatal  to  self-culture, 
that  I  feel  myself  bound  to  warn  every  man  against  it  who  has 
any  desire  of  improvement.  I  do  not  tell  you  it  will  destroy 
your  country.  It  wages  a  worse  war  against  yourselves. 
Truth,  justice,  candor,  fair  dealing,  sound  judgment,  self-con- 
trol, and  kind  affections,  are  its  natural  and  perpetual  prey. 

I  do  not  say  that  you  must  take  no  side  in  politics.  The  par- 
ties which  prevail  around  you  differ  in  character,  principles,  and 
spirit,  though  far  less  than  the  exaggeration  of  passion  affirms ; 
and,  as  far  as  conscience  allows,  a  man  should  support  that 
which  he  thinks  best.  In  one  respect,  however,  all  parties  agree. 
They  all  foster  that  pestilent  spirit  which  I  now  condemn.  In 
all  of  them  party  spirit  rages.  Associate  men  together  for  a 
common  cause,  be  it  good  or  bad,  and  array  against  them  a  body 
resolutely  pledged  to  an  opposite  interest,  and  a  new  passion, 
quite  distinct  from  the  original  sentiment  which  brought  them 
together,  a  fierce,  fiery  zeal,  consisting  chiefly  of  aversion  to 
those  who  differ  from  them,  is  roused  within  them  into  fearful 
activity.  Human  nature  seems  incapable  of  a  stronger,  more 
unrelenting  passion.     It  is  hard  enough  for  an  individual,  when 


SELF-CULTURE  45 

contending  all  alone  for  an  interest  or  an  opinion,  to  keep  down 
his  pride,  wilfulness,  love  of  victory,  anger,  and  other  personal 
feelings.  But  let  him  join  a  multitude  in  the  same  warfare, 
and,  without  singular  self-control,  he  receives  into  his  single 
breast  the  vehemence,  obstinacy,  and  vindictiveness  of  all.  The 
triumph  of  his  party  becomes  immeasurably  dearer  to  him  than 
the  principle,  true  or  false,  which  was  the  original  ground  of 
division.  The  conflict  becomes  a  struggle,  not  for  principle  but 
for  power,  for  victory;  and  the  desperateness,  the  wickedness 
of  such  struggles,  is  the  great  burden  of  history.  In  truth,  it 
matters  little  what  men  divide  about,  whether  it  be  a  foot  of 
land  or  precedence  in  a  procession.  Let  them  but  begin  to  fight 
for  it,  and  self-will,  ill-will,  the  rage  for  victory,  the  dread  of 
mortification  and  defeat,  make  the  trifle  as  weighty  as  a  matter 
of  life  and  death.  The  Greek  or  Eastern  empire  was  shaken 
to  its  foundation  by  parties  which  differed  only  about  the  merits 
of  charioteers  at  the  amphitheatre.  Party  spirit  is  singularly 
hostile  to  moral  independence.  A  man,  in  proportion  as  he 
drinks  into  it,  sees,  hears,  judges  by  the  senses  and  understand- 
ings of  his  party.  He  surrenders  the  freedom  of  a  man,  the 
right  of  using  and  speaking  his  own  mind,  and  echoes  the  ap- 
plauses or  maledictions  with  which  the  leaders  or  passionate 
partisans  see  fit  that  the  country  should  ring.  On  all  points, 
parties  are  to  be  distrusted ;  but  on  no  one  so  much  as  on  the 
character  of  opponents.  These,  if  you  may  trust  what  you 
hear,  are  always  men  without  principle  and  truth,  devoured  by 
selfishness,  and  thirsting  for  their  own  elevation,  though  on 
their  country's  ruin.  When  I  was  young,  I  was  accustomed  to 
hear  pronounced  with  abhorrence,  almost  with  execration,  the 
names  of  men  who  are  now  hailed  by  their  former  foes  as  the 
champions  of  grand  principles,  and  as  worthy  of  the  highest 
public  trusts.  This  lesson  of  early  experience,  which  later 
years  have  corroborated,  will  never  be  forgotten. 

Of  our  present  political  divisions  I  have  of  course  nothing  to 
say.  But,  among  the  current  topics  of  party,  there  are  certain 
accusations  and  recriminations,  grounded  on  differences  of 
social  condition,  which  seem  to  me  so  unfriendly  to  the  improve- 
ment of  individuals  and  the  community  that  I  ask  the  privilege 
of  giving  them  a  moment's  notice.  On  one  side  we  are  told 
that  the  rich  are  disposed  to  trample  on  the  poor ;  and,  on  the 


46  CHANNING 

other,  that  the  poor  look  with  evil  eye  and  hostile  purpose  on 
the  possessions  of  the  rich.  These  outcries  seem  to  me  alike 
devoid  of  truth  and  alike  demoralizing.  As  for  the  rich,  who 
constitute  but  a  handful  of  our  population,  who  possess  not  one 
peculiar  privilege,  and,  what  is  more,  who  possess  comparatively- 
little  of  the  property  of  the  country,  it  is  wonderful  that  they 
should  be  objects  of  alarm.  The  vast  and  ever-growing  prop- 
erty of  this  country,  where  is  it  ?  Locked  up  in  a  few  hands  ? 
hoarded  in  a  few  strong  boxes  ?  It  is  diffused  like  the  atmos- 
phere, and  almost  as  variable,  changing  hands  with  the  sea- 
sons, shifting  from  rich  to  poor,  not  by  the  violence  but  by  the 
industry  and  skill  of  the  latter  class.  The  wealth  of  the  rich  is 
as  a  drop  in  the  ocean ;  and  it  is  a  well-known  fact,  that  those 
men  among  us  who  are  noted  for  their  opulence  exert  hardly 
any  political  power  on  the  community.  That  the  rich  do  their 
whole  duty;  that  they  adopt,  as  they  should,  the  great  object  of 
the  social  state,  which  is  the  elevation  of  the  people  in  intelli- 
gence, character,  and  condition,  cannot  be  pretended ;  but  that 
they  feel  for  the  physical  sufferings  of  their  brethren,  that  they 
stretch  out  liberal  hands  for  the  succor  of  the  poor,  and  for  the 
support  of  useful  public  institutions,  cannot  be  denied.  Among 
them  are  admirable  specimens  of  humanity.  There  is  no  war- 
rant for  holding  them  up  to  suspicion  as  the  people's  foes. 

Nor  do  I  regard  as  less  calumnious  the  outcry  against  the 
working  classes,  as  if  they  were  aiming  at  the  subversion  of 
property.  When  we  think  of  the  general  condition  and  char- 
acter of  this  part  of  our  population ;  when  we  recollect  that  they 
were  born  and  have  lived  amidst  schools  and  churches,  that 
they  have  been  brought  up  to  profitable  industry,  that  they 
enjoy  many  of  the  accommodations  of  life,  that  most  of  them 
hold  a  measure  of  property  and  are  hoping  for  more,  that  they 
possess  unprecedented  means  of  bettering  their  lot,  that  they 
are  bound  to  comfortable  homes  by  strong  domestic  affections, 
that  they  are  able  to  give  their  children  an  education  which 
places  within  their  reach  the  prizes  of  the  social  state,  that  they 
are  trained  to  the  habits  and  familiarized  to  the  advantages  of 
a  high  civilization ;  when  we  recollect  these  things,  can  we  im- 
agine that  they  are  so  insanely  blind  to  their  interests,  so  deaf 
to  the  claims  of  justice  and  religion,  so  profligately  thoughtless 
of  the  peace  and  safety  of  their  families,  as  to  be  prepared  to 


SELF-CULTURE  47 

make  a  wreck  of  social  order,  for  the  sake  of  dividing  among 
themselves  the  spoils  of  the  rich,  which  would  not  support  the 
community  for  a  month?  Undoubtedly  there  is  insecurity  in 
all  stages  of  society,  and  so  there  must  be  until  communities 
shall  be  regenerated  by  a  higher  culture,  reaching  and  quicken- 
ing all  classes  of  the  people ;  but  there  is  not,  I  believe,  a  spot 
on  earth  where  property  is  safer  than  here,  because  nowhere 
else  is  it  so  equally  and  righteously  diffused.  In  aristocracies, 
where  wealth  exists  in  enormous  masses,  which  have  been  en- 
tailed for  ages  by  a  partial  legislation  on  a  favored  few,  and 
where  the  multitude,  after  the  sleep  of  ages,  are  waking  up  to 
intelligence,  to  self-respect,  and  to  a  knowledge  of  their  rights, 
property  is  exposed  to  shocks  which  are  not  to  be  dreaded 
among  ourselves.  Here,  indeed,  as  elsewhere,  among  the  less 
prosperous  members  of  the  community,  there  are  disappointed, 
desperate  men,  ripe  for  tumult  and  civil  strife;  but  it  is  also 
true  that  the  most  striking  and  honorable  distinction  of  this 
country  is  to  be  found  in  the  intelligence,  character,  and  condi- 
tion of  the  great  working  class.  To  me  it  seems  that  the  great 
danger  to  property  here  is  not  from  the  laborer,  but  from  those 
who  are  making  haste  to  be  rich.  For  example,  in  this  com- 
monwealth no  act  has  been  thought  by  the  alarmists  or  the 
conservatives  so  subversive  of  the  rights  of  property  as  a  recent 
law  authorizing  a  company  to  construct  a  free  bridge  in  the 
immediate  neighborhood  of  another  which  had  been  chartered 
by  a  former  legislature,  and  which  had  been  erected  in  the  ex- 
pectation of  an  exclusive  right.  And  with  whom  did  this  al- 
leged assault  on  property  originate?  With  levellers?  with 
needy  laborers  ?  with  men  bent  on  the  prostration  of  the  rich  ? 
No ;  but  with  men  of  business,  who  are  anxious  to  push  a  more 
lucrative  trade.  Again,  what  occurrence  among  us  ha*  been 
so  suited  to  destroy  confidence,  and  to  stir  up  the  people  against 
the  moneyed  class,  as  the  late  criminal  mismanagement  of  some 
of  our  banking  institutions?  And  whence  came  this?  from 
the  rich,  or  the  poor  ?  From  the  agrarian,  or  the  man  of  busi- 
ness? Who,  let  me  ask,  carry  on  the  work  of  spoliation  most 
extensively  in  society?  Is  not  more  property  wrested  from  its 
owners  by  rash  or  dishonest  failures  than  by  professed  high- 
waymen and  thieves  ?  Have  not  a  few  unprincipled  speculators 
sometimes  inflicted  wider  wrongs  and  sufferings  than  all  the 


48  CHANNING 

tenants  of  a  State  prison?  Thus  property  is  in  more  danger 
from  those  who  are  aspiring  after  wealth  than  from  those  who 
Hve  by  the  sweat  of  their  brow.  I  do  not  beUeve,  however, 
that  the  institution  is  in  serious  danger  from  either.  All  the 
advances  of  society  in  industry,  useful  arts,  commerce,  knowl- 
edge, jurisprudence,  fraternal  union,  and  practical  Christianity, 
are  so  many  hedges  around  honestly  acquired  wealth,  so  many 
barriers  against  revolutionary  violence  and  rapacity.  Let  us 
not  torture  ourselves  with  idle  alarms,  and,  still  more,  let  us 
not  inflame  ourselves  against  one  another  by  mutual  calumnies. 
Let  not  class  array  itself  against  class,  where  all  have  a  com- 
mon interest.  One  way  of  provoking  men  to  crime  is  to  suspect 
them  of  criminal  designs.  We  do  not  secure  our  property 
against  the  poor  by  accusing  them  of  schemes  of  universal  rob- 
bery ;  nor  render  the  rich  better  friends  of  the  community  by 
fixing  on  them  the  brand  of  hostility  to  the  people.  Of  all  par- 
ties, those  founded  on  different  social  conditions  are  the  most 
pernicious ;  and  in  no  country  on  earth  are  they  so  groundless 
as  in  our  own. 

Among  the  best  people,  especially  among  the  more  religious, 
there  are  some  who,  through  disgust  with  the  violence  and 
frauds  of  parties,  withdraw  themselves  from  all  political  action. 
Such,  I  conceive,  do  wrong.  God  has  placed  them  in  the  rela- 
tions, and  imposed  on  them  the  duties,  of  citizens ;  and  they  are 
no  more  authorized  to  shrink  from  these  duties  than  from  those 
of  sons,  husbands,  or  fathers.  They  owe  a  great  debt  to  their 
country,  and  must  discharge  it  by  giving  support  to  what  they 
deem  the  best  men  and  the  best  measures.  Nor  let  them  say 
that  they  can  do  nothing.  Every  good  man,  if  faithful  to  his 
convictions,  benefits  his  country.  All  parties  are  kept  in  check 
by  the-spirit  of  the  better  portion  of  people  whom  they  contain. 
Leaders  are  always  compelled  to  ask  what  their  party  will  bear, 
and  to  modify  their  measures,  so  as  not  to  shock  the  men  of 
principle  within  their  ranks.  A  good  man,  not  tamely  sub- 
servient to  the  body  with  which  he  acts,  but  judging  it  impar- 
tially, criticising  it  freely,  bearing  testimony  against  its  evils, 
and  withholding  his  support  from  wrong,  does  good  to  those 
around  him,  and  is  cultivating  generously  his  own  mind, 

I  respectfully  counsel  those  whom  I  address  to  take  part  in 
the  politics  of  their  country.     These  are  the  true  discipline  of  a 


SELF-CULTURE  49 

people,  and  do  much  for  their  education.  I  counsel  you  to  labor 
for  a  clear  understanding  of  the  subjects  which  agitate  the  com- 
munity, to  make  them  your  study,  instead  of  wasting  your  leis- 
ure in  vague,  passionate  talk  about  them.  The  time  thrown 
away  by  the  mass  of  the  people  on  the  rumors  of  the  day  might, 
if  better  spent,  give  them  a  good  acquaintance  with  the  consti- 
tution, laws,  history,  and  interests  of  their  country,  and  thus 
establish  them  in  those  great  principles  by  which  particular 
measures  are  to  de  determined.  In  proportion  as  the  people 
thus  improve  themselves,  they  will  cease  to  be  the  tools  of  de- 
signing politicians.  Their  intelligence,  not  their  passions  and 
jealousies,  will  be  addressed  by  those  who  seek  their  votes. 
They  will  exert,  not  a  nominal,  but  a  real  influence  on  the  gov- 
ernment and  the  destinies  of  the  country,  and  at  the  same  time 
will  forward  their  own  growth  in  truth  and  virtue. 

I  ought  not  to  quit  this  subject  of  politics,  considered  as  a 
means  of  self-culture,  without  speaking  of  newspapers ;  because 
these  form  the  chief  reading  of  the  bulk  of  the  people.  They 
are  the  literature  of  multitudes.  Unhappily,  their  importance  is 
not  understood ;  their  bearing  on  the  intellectual  and  moral  cul- 
tivation of  the  community  little  thought  of.  A  newspaper 
ought  to  be  conducted  by  one  of  our  most  gifted  men,  and  its 
income  should  be  such  as  to  enable  him  to  secure  the  contribu- 
tions of  men  as  gifted  as  himself.  But  we  must  take  news- 
papers as  they  are ;  and  a  man  anxious  for  self-culture  may  turn 
them  to  account,  if  he  will  select  the  best  within  his  reach.  He 
should  exclude  from  his  house  such  as  are  venomous  or  scur- 
rilous, as  he  would  a  pestilence.  He  should  be  swayed  in  his 
choice,  not  merely  by  the  ability  with  which  a  paper  is  con- 
ducted, but  still  more  by  its  spirit,  by  its  justice,  fairness,  and 
steady  adherence  to  great  principles.  Especially,  if  he  would 
know  the  truth,  let  him  hear  both  sides.  Let  him  read  the  de- 
fence as  well  as  the  attack.  Let  him  not  give  his  ear  to  one 
party  exclusively.  We  condemn  ourselves  when  we  listen  to 
reproaches  thrown  on  an  individual  and  turn  away  from  his 
exculpation ;  and  is  it  just  to  read  continual,  unsparing  invective 
against  large  masses  of  men,  and  refuse  them  the  opportunity 
of  justifying  themselves  ? 

A  new  class  of  daily  papers  has  sprung  up  in  our  country, 
sometimes  called  cent  papers,  and  designed  for  circulation 
4 


50  CHANNING 

among  those  who  cannot  afford  costlier  publications.  My  in- 
terest in  the  working  class  induced  me  some  time  ago  to  take 
one  of  these,  and  I  was  gratified  to  find  it  not  wanting  in  useful 
matter.  Two  things,  however,  gave  me  pain.  The  advertising 
columns  were  devoted  very  much  to  patent  medicines ;  and  when 
I  considered  that  a  laboring  man's  whole  fortune  is  his  health, 
I  could  not  but  lament  that  so  much  was  done  to  seduce  him 
to  the  use  of  articles  more  fitted,  I  fear,  to  undermine  than  to 
restore  his  constitution.  I  was  also  shocked  by  accounts  of 
trials  in  the  police  court.  These  were  written  in  a  style  adapted 
to  the  most  uncultivated  minds,  and  intended  to  turn  into  mat- 
ters of  sport  the  most  painful  and  humiliating  events  of  life. 
Were  the  newspapers  of  the  rich  to  attempt  to  extract  amuse- 
ment from  the  vices  and  miseries  of  the  poor  a  cry  would  be 
raised  against  them,  and  very  justly.  But  is  it  not  something 
worse  that  the  poorer  classes  themselves  should  seek  occasions 
of  laughter  and  merriment  in  the  degradation,  the  crimes,  the 
woes,  the  punishments  of  their  brethren,  of  those  who  are 
doomed  to  bear  like  themselves  the  heaviest  burdens  of  life,  and 
who  have  sunk  under  the  temptations  of  poverty?  Better  go 
to  the  hospital,  and  laugh  over  the  wounds  and  writhings  of  the 
sick  or  the  ravings  of  the  insane,  than  amuse  ourselves  with 
brutal  excesses  and  infernal  passions,  which  not  only  expose  the 
criminal  to  the  crushing  penalties  of  human  laws,  but  incur  the 
displeasure  of  Heaven,  and,  if  not  repented  of,  will  be  followed 
by  the  fearful  retribution  of  the  life  to  come. 

One  important  topic  remains.  That  great  means  of  self-im- 
provement, Christianity,  is  yet  untouched,  and  its  greatness 
forbids  me  now  to  approach  it.  I  will  only  say,  that  if  you 
study  Christianity  in  its  original  records,  and  not  in  human 
creeds ;  if  you  consider  its  clear  revelations  of  God,  its  life-giv- 
ing promises  of  pardon  and  spiritual  strength,  its  correspon- 
dence to  man's  reason,  conscience,  and  best  affections,  and  its 
adaptation  to  his  wants,  sorrows,  anxieties,  and  fears;  if  you 
consider  the  strength  of  its  proofs,  the  purity  of  its  precepts,  the 
divine  greatness  of  the  character  of  its  author,  and  the  immor- 
tality which  it  opens  before  us,  you  will  feel  yourselves  bound 
to  welcome  it  joyfully,  gratefully,  as  affording  aids  and  incite- 
ments to  self-culture  which  would  vainly  be  sought  in  all  other 
means. 


SELF-CULTURE  51 

• 

I  have  thus  presented  a  few  of  the  means  of  self-culture. 
The  topics  now  discussed  will,  I  hope,  suggest  others  to  those 
who  have  honored  me  with  their  attention,  and  create  an  interest 
which  will  extend  beyond  the  present  hour.  I  owe  it,  however, 
to  truth  to  make  one  remark.  I  wish  to  raise  no  unreasonable 
hopes.  I  must  say,  then,  that  the  means  now  recommended  to 
you,  though  they  will  richly  reward  every  man  of  every  age 
who  will  faithfully  use  them,  will  yet  not  produce  their  full  and 
happiest  effect,  except  in  cases  where  early  education  has  pre- 
pared the  mind  for  future  improvement.  They  whose  child- 
hood has  been  neglected,  though  they  may  make  progress  in 
future  life,  can  hardly  repair  the  loss  of  their  first  years ;  and 
I  say  this,  that  we  may  all  be  excited  to  save  our  children  from 
this  loss,  that  we  may  prepare  them,  to  the  extent  of  our  power, 
for  an  effectual  use  of  all  the  means  of  self-culture  which  adult 
age  may  bring  with  it.  With  these  views,  I  ask  you  to  look 
with  favor  on  the  recent  exertions  of  our  legislature  and  of 
private  citizens  in  behalf  of  our  public  schools,  the  chief  hope 
of  our  country.  The  legislature  has  of  late  appointed  a  board 
of  education,  with  a  secretary,  who  is  to  devote  his  whole  time 
to  the  improvement  of  public  schools.  An  individual  more 
fitted  to  this  responsible  office  than  the  gentleman  who  now  fills 
it  ^  cannot,  I  believe,  be  found  in  our  community ;  and  if  his 
labors  shall  be  crowned  with  success,  he  will  earn  a  title  to  the 
gratitude  of  the  good  people  of  this  State  unsurpassed  by  that 
of  any  other  living  citizen.  Let  me  also  recall  to  your  minds 
a  munificent  individual,^  who,  by  a  generous  donation,  has  en- 
couraged the  legislature  to  resolve  on  the  establishment  of  one 
or  more  institutions  called  normal  schools,  the  object  of  which 
is  to  prepare  accomplished  teachers  of  youth — a  work  on  which 
the  progress  of  education  depends  more  than  on  any  other  meas- 
ure. The  efficient  friends  of  education  are  the  true  benefactors 
of  their  country,  and  their  names  deserve  to  be  handed  down  to 
that  posterity  for  whose  highest  wants  they  are  generously  pro- 
viding. 

There  is  another  mode  of  advancing  education  in  our  whole 
country,  to  which  I  ask  your  particular  attention.  You  are 
aware  of  the  vast  extent  and  value  of  the  public  lands  of  the 
Union.    By  annual  sales  of  these  large  amounts  of  money  are 

*  Horace  Mann.  >  Edmund  Dwight. 


52  CHANNING 

brought  into  the  national  treasury,  which  are  applied  to  the  cur- 
rent expenses  of  the  government.  For  this  application  there  is 
no  need.  In  truth,  the  country  has  received  detriment  from 
the  excess  of  its  revenues.  Now,  I  ask,  why  shall  not  the  pub- 
lic lands  be  consecrated  (in  whole  or  in  part,  as  the  case  may 
require)  to  the  education  of  the  people?  This  measure  would 
secure  at  once  what  the  country  most  needs ;  that  is,  able,  ac- 
complished, quickening  teachers  of  the  whole  rising  genera- 
tion. The  present  poor  remuneration  of  instructors  is  a  dark 
omen,  and  the  only  real  obstacle  which  the  cause  of  education 
has  to  contend  with.  We  need  for  our  schools  gifted  men  and 
women,  worthy,  by  their  intelligence  and  their  moral  power,  to 
be  intrusted  with  a  nation's  youth ;  and,  to  gain  these,  we  must 
pay  them  liberally,  as  well  as  afford  other  proofs  of  the  con- 
sideration in  which  we  hold  them.  In  the  present  state  of  the 
country,  when  so  many  paths  of  wealth  and  promotion  are 
opened,  superior  men  cannot  be  won  to  an  office  so  responsible 
and  laborious  as  that  of  teaching,  without  stronger  inducements 
than  are  now  offered,  except  in  some  of  our  large  cities.  The 
office  of  instructor  ought  to  rank  and  be  recompensed  as  one  of 
the  most  honorable  in  society ;  and  I  see  not  how  this  is  to  be 
done,  at  least  in  our  day,  without  appropriating  to  it  the  public 
domain.  This  is  the  people's  property,  and  the  only  part  of 
their  property  which  is  likely  to  be  soon  devoted  to  the  support 
of  a  high  order  of  institutions  for  public  education.  This  ob- 
ject, interesting  to  all  classes  of  society,  has  peculiar  claims  on 
those  whose  means  of  improvement  are  restricted  by  narrow 
circumstances.  The  mass  of  the  people  should  devote  them- 
selves to  it  as  one  man,  should  toil  for  it  with  one  soul.  Me- 
chanics, farmers,  laborers!  let  the  country  echo  with  your 
united  cry,  "  The  Public  Lands  for  Education."  Send  to  the 
public  councils  men  who  will  plead  this  cause  with  power.  No 
party  triumphs,  no  trades-unions,  no  associations,  can  so  con- 
tribute to  elevate  you  as  the  measure  now  proposed.  Nothing 
but  a  higher  education  can  raise  you  in  influence  and  true  dig- 
nity. The  resources  of  the  public  domain,  wisely  applied  for 
successive  generations  to  the  culture  of  society  and  of  the  in- 
dividual, would  create  a  new  people,  would  awaken  through 
this  community  intellectual  and  moral  energies,  such  as  the 
records  of  no  country  display,  and  as  would  command  the  re- 


SELF-CULTURE  53 

spect  and  emulation  of  the  civilized  world.  In  this  grand  ob- 
ject the  working  men  of  all  parties,  and  in  all  divisions  of  the 
land,  should  join  with  an  enthusiasm  not  to  be  withstood.  They 
should  separate  it  from  all  narrow  and  local  strifes.  They 
should  not  suffer  it  to  be  mixed  up  with  the  schemes  of  politi- 
cians. In  it,  they  and  their  children  have  an  infinite  stake. 
May  they  be  true  to  themselves,  to  posterity,  to  their  country, 
to  freedom,  to  the  cause  of  mankind ! 

III.  I  am  aware  that  the  whole  doctrine  of  this  discourse  will 
meet  with  opposition.  There  are  not  a  few  who  will  say  to  me : 
"  What  you  tell  us  sounds  well ;  but  it  is  impracticable.  Men 
who  dream  in  their  closets  spin  beautiful  theories ;  but  actual 
life  scatters  them,  as  the  wind  snaps  the  cobweb.  You  would 
have  all  men  to  be  cultivated ;  but  necessity  wills  that  most  men 
shall  work ;  and  which  of  the  two  is  likely  to  prevail  ?  A  weak 
sentimentality  may  shrink  from  the  truth ;  still  it  is  true  that 
most  men  were  made,  not  for  self-culture,  but  for  toil." 

I  have  put  the  objection  into  strong  language,  that  we  may 
all  look  it  fairly  in  the  face.  For  one  I  deny  its  validity.  Rea- 
son, as  well  as  sentiment,  rises  up  against  it.  The  presumption 
is  certainly  very  strong,  that  the  All-wise  Father,  who  has  given 
to  every  human  being  reason  and  conscience  and  affection,  in- 
tended that  these  should  be  unfolded ;  and  it  is  hard  to  believe 
that  He  who,  by  conferring  this  nature  on  all  men,  has  made 
all  his  children,  has  destined  the  great  majority  to  wear  out  a 
life  of  drudgery  and  unimproving  toil,  for  the  benefit  of  a  few. 
God  cannot  have  made  spiritual  beings  to  be  dwarfed.  In  the 
body  we  see  no  organs  created  to  shrivel  by  disuse ;  much  less 
are  the  powers  of  the  soul  given  to  be  locked  up  in  perpetual 
lethargy. 

Perhaps  it  will  be  replied  that  the  purpose  of  the  Creator  is 
to  be  gathered,  not  from  theory,  but  from  facts ;  and  that  it  is 
a  plain  fact,  that  the  order  and  prosperity  of  society,  which 
God  must  be  supposed  to  intend,  require  from  the  multitude 
the  action  of  their  hands,  and  not  the  improvement  of  their 
minds.  I  reply  that  a  social  order  demanding  the  sacrifice  of 
the  mind  is  very  suspicious,  that  it  cannot,  indeed,  be  sanctioned 
by  the  Creator.  Were  I,  on  visiting  a  strange  country,  to  see 
the  vast  majority  of  the  people  maimed,  crippled,  and  bereft  of 
sight,  and  were  I  told  that  social  order  required  this  mutilation. 


54  CHANNING 

I  should  say,  Perish  this  order.  Who  would  not  think  his  un- 
derstanding as  well  as  best  feelings  insulted,  by  hearing  this 
spoken  of  as  the  intention  of  God  ?  Nor  ought  we  to  look  with 
less  aversion  on  a  social  system  which  can  only  be  upheld  by 
crippling  and  blinding  the  minds  of  the  people. 

But  to  come  nearer  to  the  point.  Are  labor  and  self-culture 
irreconcilable  to  each  other?  In  the  first  place,  we  have  seen 
that  a  man,  in  the  midst  of  labor,  may  and  ought  to  give  himself 
to  the  most  important  improvements,  that  he  may  cultivate  his 
sense  of  justice,  his  benevolence,  and  the  desire  of  perfection. 
Toil  is  the  school  for  these  high  principles ;  and  we  have  here  a 
strong  presumption  that,  in  other  respects,  it  does  not  neces- 
sarily blight  the  soul.  Next,  we  have  seen  that  the  most  fruit- 
ful sources  of  truth  and  wisdom  are  not  books,  precious  as  they 
are,  but  experience  and  observation;  and  these  belong  to  all 
conditions.  It  is  another  important  consideration  that  almost 
all  labor  demands  intellectual  activity,  and  is  best  carried  on 
by  those  who  invigorate  their  minds ;  so  that  the  two  interests, 
toil  and  self-culture,  are  friends  to  each  other.  It  is  mind,  after 
all,  which  does  the  work  of  the  world,  so  that  the  more  there  is 
of  mind,  the  more  work  will  be  accomplished.  A  man,  in  pro- 
portion as  he  is  intelligent,  makes  a  given  force  accomplish  a 
greater  task,  makes  skill  take  the  place  of  muscles,  and,  with 
less  labor,  gives  a  better  product.  Make  men  intelligent,  and 
they  become  inventive.  They  find  shorter  processes.  Their 
knowledge  of  nature  helps  them  to  turn  its  laws  to  account,  to 
understand  the  substances  on  which  they  work,  and  to  seize  on 
useful  hints,  which  experience  continually  furnishes.  It  is 
among  workmen  that  some  of  the  most  useful  machines  have 
been  contrived.  Spread  education,  and,  as  the  history  of  this 
country  shows,  there  will  be  no  bounds  to  useful  inventions. 
You  think  that  a  man  without  culture  will  do  all  the  better  what 
you  call  the  drudgery  of  life.  Go,  then,  to  the  Southern  planta- 
tion. There  the  slave  is  brought  up  to  be  a  mere  drudge.  He 
is  robbed  of  the  rights  of  a  man,  his  whole  spiritual  nature  is 
starved,  that  he  may  work,  and  do  nothing  but  work ;  and  in 
that  slovenly  agriculture,  in  that  worn-out  soil,  in  the  rude  state 
of  the  mechanic  arts,  you  may  find  a  comment  on  your  doctrine, 
that,  by  degrading  men,  you  make  them  more  productive 
laborers. 


SELF-CULTURE  55 

But  it  is  said,  that  any  considerable  education  lifts  men  above 
their  work,  makes  them  look  with  disgust  on  their  trades  as 
mean  and  low,  makes  drudgery  intolerable.  I  reply  than  a  man 
becomes  interested  in  labor  just  in  proportion  as  the  mind  works 
with  the  hands.  An  enlightened  farmer,  who  understands  agri- 
cultural chemistry,  the  laws  of  vegetation,  the  structure  of 
plants,  the  properties  of  manures,  the  influences  of  climate,  who 
looks  intelligently  on  his  work,  and  brings  his  knowledge  to 
bear  on  exigencies,  is  a  much  more  cheerful,  as  well  as  more 
dignified  laborer,  than  the  peasant  whose  mind  is  akin  to  the 
clod  on  which  he  treads,  and  whose  whole  life  is  the  same  dull, 
unthinking,  unimproving  toil.  But  this  is  not  all.  Why  is  it, 
I  ask,  that  we  call  manual  labor  low,  that  we  associate  with  it 
the  idea  of  meanness,  and  think  that  an  intelligent  people  must 
scorn  it?  The  great  reason  is,  that,  in  most  countries,  so  few 
intelligent  people  have  been  engaged  in  it.  Once  let  cultivated 
men  plough,  and  dig,  and  follow  the  commonest  labors,  and 
ploughing,  digging,  and  trades  will  cease  to  be  mean.  It  is  the 
man  who  determines  the  dignity  of  the  occupation,  not  the  oc- 
cupation which  measures  the  dignity  of  the  man.  Physicians 
and  surgeons  perform  operations  less  cleanly  than  fall  to  the 
lot  of  most  mechanics.  I  have  seen  a  distinguished  chemist 
covered  with  dust  like  a  laborer.  Still  these  men  were  not  de- 
graded. Their  intelligence  gave  dignity  to  their  work,  and  so 
our  laborers,  once  educated,  will  give  dignity  to  their  toils.  Let 
me  add,  that  I  see  little  difference  in  point  of  dignity  between 
the  various  vocations  of  men.  When  I  see  a  clerk  spending  his 
days  in  adding  figures,  perhaps  merely  copying,  or  a  teller  of  a 
bank  counting  money,  or  a  merchant  selling  shoes  and  hides,  I 
cannot  see  in  these  occupations  greater  respectableness  than  in 
making  leather,  shoes,  or  furniture.  I  do  not  see  in  them 
greater  intellectual  activity  than  in  several  trades.  A  man  in 
the  fields  seems  to  have  more  chances  of  improvement  in  his 
work  than  a  man  behind  the  counter,  or  a  man  driving  the 
quill.  It  is  the  sign  of  a  narrow  mind  to  imagine,  as  many  seem 
to  do,  that  there  is  a  repugnance  between  the  plain,  coarse  ex- 
terior of  a  laborer,  and  mental  culture,  especially  the  more  re- 
fining culture.  The  laborer,  under  his  dust  and  sweat,  carries 
the  grand  elements  of  humanity,  and  he  may  put  forth  its  high- 
est powers.     I  doubt  not  there  is  as  genuine  enthusiasm  in  the 


56  CHANNING 

contemplation  of  nature,  and  in  the  perusal  of  works  of  genius, 
under  a  homespun  garb  as  under  finery.  We  have  heard  of  a 
distinguished  author  who  never  wrote  so  well  as  when  he  was 
full  dressed  for  company.  But  profound  thought  and  poetical 
inspiration  have  most  generally  visited  men  when,  from  narrow 
circumstances  or  negligent  habits,  the  rent  coat  and  shaggy  face 
have  made  them  quite  unfit  for  polished  salons.  A  man  may 
see  truth,  and  may  be  thrilled  with  beauty,  in  one  costume  or 
dwelling  as  well  as  another ;  and  he  should  respect  himself  the 
more  for  the  hardships  under  which  his  intellectual  force  has 
been  developed. 

But  it  will  be  asked,  how  can  the  laboring  classes  find  time 
for  self-culture?  I  answer,  as  I  have  already  intimated,  that 
an  earnest  purpose  finds  time  or  makes  time.  It  seizes  on  spare 
moments,  and  turns  large  fragments  of  leisure  to  golden  ac- 
count. A  man  who  follows  his  calling  with  industry  and  spirit, 
and  uses  his  earnings  economically,  will  always  have  some  por- 
tion of  the  day  at  command ;  and  it  is  astonishing  how  fruitful 
of  improvement  a  short  season  becomes,  when  eagerly  seized 
and  faithfully  used.  It  has  often  been  observed  that  they  who 
have  most  time  at  their  disposal  profit  by  it  least.  A  single 
hour  in  the  day,  steadily  given  to  the  study  of  an  interesting 
subject,  brings  unexpected  accumulations  of  knowledge.  The 
improvements  made  by  well-disposed  pupils  in  many  of  our 
country  schools,  which  are  open  but  three  months  in  the  year, 
and  in  our  Sunday  schools,  which  are  kept  but  one  or  two  hours 
in  the  week,  show  what  can  be  brought  to  pass  by  slender  means. 
The  affections,  it  is  said,  sometimes  crowd  years  into  moments, 
and  the  intellect  has  something  of  the  same  power.  Volumes 
have  not  only  been  read,  but  written,  in  flying  journeys.  I 
have  known  a  man  of  vigorous  intellect,  who  had  enjoyed  few 
advantages  of  early  education,  and  whose  mind  was  almost  en- 
grossed by  the  details  of  an  extensive  business,  but  who  com- 
posed a  book  of  much  original  thought,  in  steamboats  and  on 
horseback,  while  visiting  distant  customers.  The  succession 
of  the  seasons  gives  to  many  of  the  working  class  opportunities 
for  intellectual  improvement.  The  winter  brings  leisure  to  the 
husbandman,  and  winter  evenings  to  many  laborers  in  the  city. 
Above  all,  in  Christian  countries,  the  seventh  day  is  released 
from  toil.    The  seventh  part  of  the  year,  no  small  portion  of 


SELF-CULTURE  57 

existence,  may  be  given  by  almost  every  one  to  intellectual  and 
moral  culture.  Why  is  it  that  Sunday  is  not  made  a  more  ef- 
fectual means  of  improvement  ?  Undoubtedly  the  seventh  day 
is  to  have  a  religious  character ;  but  religion  connects  itself  with 
all  the  great  subjects  of  human  thought,  and  leads  to  and  aids 
the  study  of  all.  God  is  in  nature.  God  is  in  history.  Instruc- 
tion in  the  works  of  the  Creator,  so  as  to  reveal  His  perfection 
in  their  harmony,  beneficence,  and  grandeur ;  instruction  in  the 
histories  of  the  church  and  the  world,  so  as  to  show  in  all  events 
His  moral  government,  and  to  bring  out  the  great  moral  les- 
sons in  which  human  life  abounds;  instruction  in  the  Hves  of 
philanthropists,  of  saints,  of  men  eminent  for  piety  and  virtue 
— all  these  branches  of  teaching  enter  into  religion,  and  are  ap- 
propriate to  Sunday;  and,  through  these,  a  vast  amount  of 
knowledge  may  be  given  to  the  people.  Sunday  ought  not  to 
remain  the  dull  and  fruitless  season  that  it  now  is  to  multitudes. 
It  may  be  clothed  with  a  new  interest  and  a  new  sanctity.  It 
may  give  a  new  impulse  to  the  nation's  soul.  I  have  thus  shown 
that  time  may  be  found  for  improvement ;  and  the  fact  is,  that 
among  our  most  improved  people  a  considerable  part  consists 
of  persons  who  pass  the  greatest  portion  of  every  day  at  the 
desk,  in  the  counting-room,  or  in  some  other  sphere,  chained 
to  tasks  which  have  very  little  tendency  to  expand  the  mind. 
In  the  progress  of  society,  with  the  increase  of  machinery,  and 
with  other  aids  which  intelligence  and  philanthropy  will  mul- 
tiply, we  may  expect  that  more  and  more  time  will  be  redeemed 
from  manual  labor  for  intellectual  and  social  occupations. 

But  some  will  say :  "  Be  it  granted  that  the  working  classes 
may  find  some  leisure ;  should  they  not  be  allowed  to  spend  it  in 
relaxation  ?  Is  it  not  cruel  to  summon  them  from  toils  of  the 
hand  to  toils  of  the  mind  ?  They  have  earned  pleasure  by  the 
day's  toil,  and  ought  to  partake  it."  Yes,  let  them  have  pleas- 
ure. Far  be  it  from  me  to  dry  up  the  fountains,  to  blight  the 
spots  of  verdure,  where  they  refresh  themselves  after  life's 
labors.  But  I  maintain  that  self-culture  multiplies  and  in- 
creases their  pleasures,  that  it  creates  new  capacities  of  enjoy- 
ment, that  it  saves  their  leisure  from  being,  what  it  too  often 
is,  dull  and  wearisome,  that  it  saves  them  from  rushing  for 
excitement  to  indulgences  destructive  to  body  and  souL  It  is 
one  of  the  great  benefits  of  self-improvement,  that  it  raises  a 


58  CHANNING 

people  above  the  gratifications  of  the  brute,  and  gives  them 
pleasures  worthy  of  men.  In  consequence  of  the  present  intel- 
lectual culture  of  our  country,  imperfect  as  it  is,  a  vast  amount 
of  enjoyment  is  communicated  to  men,  women,  and  children, 
of  all  conditions,  by  books — an  enjoyment  unknown  to  ruder 
times.  At  this  moment  a  number  of  gifted  writers  are  em- 
ployed in  multiplying  entertaining  works.  Walter  Scott,  a 
name  conspicuous  among  the  brightest  of  his  day,  poured  out 
his  inexhaustible  mind  in  fictions,  at  once  so  sportive  and  thrill- 
ing that  they  have  taken  their  place  among  the  delights  of  all 
civiHzed  nations.  How  many  millions  have  been  chained  to  his 
pages!  How  many  melancholy  spirits  has  be  steeped  in  for- 
getfulness  of  their  cares  and  sorrows!  What  multitudes, 
wearied  by  their  day's  work,  have  owed  some  bright  evening 
hours  and  balmier  sleep  to  his  magical  creations?  And  not 
only  do  fictions  give  pleasure.  In  proportion  as  the  mind  is 
cultivated,  it  takes  delight  in  history  and  biography,  in  descrip- 
tions of  nature,  in  travels,  in  poetry,  and  even  graver  works. 
Is  the  laborer  then  defrauded  of  pleasure  by  improvement? 
There  is  another  class  of  gratifications  to  which  self-culture  in- 
troduces the  mass  of  the  people.  I  refer  to  lectures,  discus- 
sions, meetings  of  associations  for  benevolent  and  literary  pur- 
poses, and  to  other  like  methods  of  passing  the  evening,  which 
every  year  is  multiplying  among  us.  A  popular  address  from 
an  enlightened  man,  who  has  the  tact  to  reach  the  minds  of  the 
people,  is  a  high  gratification,  as  well  as  a  source  of  knowledge. 
The  profound  silence  in  our  public  halls,  where  these  lectures 
are  delivered  to  crowds,  shows  that  cultivation  is  no  foe  to  en- 
joyment. I  have  a  strong  hope,  that  by  the  progress  of  intelli- 
gence, taste,  and  morals  among  all  portions  of  society,  a  class 
of  public  amusements  will  grow  up  among  us,  bearing  some 
resemblance  to  the  theatre,  but  purified  from  the  gross  evils 
which  degrade  our  present  stage,  and  which,  I  trust,  will  seal 
its  ruin.  Dramatic  performances  and  recitations  are  means  of 
bringing  the  mass  of  the  people  into  a  quicker  sympathy  with 
a  writer  of  genius,  to  a  profounder  comprehension  of  his  grand, 
beautiful,  touching  conceptions,  than  can  be  effected  by  the 
reading  of  the  closet.  No  commentary  throws  such  a  light  on 
a  great  poem  or  any  impassioned  work  of  literature  as  the  voice 
of  a  reader  or  speaker  who  brings  to  the  task  a  deep  feeling  of 


SELF-CULTURE  59 

his  author  and  rich  and  various  powers  of  expression.  A 
crowd,  electrified  by  a  subHme  thought,  or  softened  into  a  hu- 
manizing sorrow,  under  such  a  voice,  partake  a  pleasure  at  once 
exquisite  and  refined;  and  I  cannot  but  believe  that  this  and 
other  amusements,  at  which  the  delicacy  of  woman  and  the 
purity  of  the  Christian  can  take  no  offence,  are  to  grow  up  un- 
der a  higher  social  culture.  Let  me  only  add,  that,  in  propor- 
tion as  culture  spreads  among  a  peoj\le,  the  cheapest  and  com- 
monest of  all  pleasures,  conversation,  increases  in  delight. 
This,  after  all,  is  the  great  amusement  of  life,  cheering  us  round 
our  hearths,  often  cheering  our  work,  stirring  our  hearts  gently, 
acting  on  us  like  the  balmy  air  or  the  bright  light  of  heaven,  so 
silently  and  continually,  that  we  hardly  think  of  its  influence. 
This  source  of  happiness  is  too  often  lost  to  men  of  all  classes 
for  want  of  knowledge,  mental  activity,  and  refinement  of  feel- 
ing; and  do  we  defraud  the  laborer  of  his  pleasure  by  recom- 
mending to  him  improvements  which  will  place  the  daily,  hourly 
blessings  of  conversation  within  his  reach? 

I  have  thus  considered  some  of  the  common  objections  which 
start  up  when  the  culture  of  the  mass  of  men  is  insisted  on  as 
the  great  end  of  society.  For  myself,  these  objections  seem 
worthy  little  notice.  The  doctrine  is  too  shocking  to  need 
refutation,  that  the  great  majority  of  human  beings,  endowed 
as  they  are  with  rational  and  immortal  powers,  are  placed  on 
earth  simply  to  toil  for  their  own  animal  subsistence,  and  to 
minister  to  the  luxury  and  elevation  of  the  few.  It  is  mon- 
strous, it  approaches  impiety,  to  suppose  that  God  has  placed 
insuperable  barriers  to  the  expansion  of  the  free,  illimitable 
soul.  True,  there  are  obstructions  in  the  way  of  improvement. 
But  in  this  country,  the  chief  obstructions  lie,  not  in  our  lot  but 
in  ourselves ;  not  in  outward  hardships,  but  in  our  worldly  and 
sensual  propensities ;  and  one  proof  of  this  is  that  a  true  self- 
culture  is  as  little  thought  of  on  exchange  as  in  the  workshop, 
as  little  among  the  prosperous  as  among  those  of  narrower  con- 
ditions. The  path  to  perfection  is  difficult  to  men  in  every  lot ; 
there  is  no  royal  road  for  rich  or  poor.  But  difficulties  are 
meant  to  rouse,  not  discourage.  The  human  spirit  is  to  grow 
strong  by  conflict.  And  how  much  has  it  already  overcome! 
Under  what  burdens  of  oppression  has  it  made  its  way  for  ages ! 
What  mountains  of  difficulty  has  it  cleared !     And  with  all  this 


6o  CHANNING 

experience,  shall  we  say  that  the  progress  of  the  mass  of  men 
is  to  be  despaired  of ;  that  the  chains  of  bodily  necessity  are  too 
strong  and  ponderous  to  be  broken  by  the  mind ;  that  servile, 
unimproving  drudgery  is  the  unalterable  condition  of  the  mul- 
titude of  the  human  race  ? 

I  conclude  with  recalling  to  you  the  happiest  feature  of  our 
age,  and  that  is,  the  progress  of  the  mass  of  the  people  in  intelli- 
gence, self-respect,  and  all  the  comforts  of  life.  What  a  con- 
trast does  the  present  form  with  past  times !  Not  many  ages 
ago  the  nation  was  the  property  of  one  man,  and  all  its  interests 
were  staked  in  perpetual  games  of  war,  for  no  end  but  to  build 
up  his  family,  or  to  bring  new  territories  under  his  yoke.  So- 
ciety was  divided  into  two  classes,  the  high-born  and  the  vulgar, 
separated  from  one  another  by  a  great  gulf,  as  impassable  as 
that  between  the  saved  and  the  lost.  The  people  had  no  sig- 
nificance as  individuals,  but  formed  a  mass,  a  machine,  to  be 
wielded  at  pleasure  by  their  lords.  In  war,  which  was  the  great 
sport  of  the  times,  those  brave  knights,  of  whose  prowess  we 
hear,  cased  themselves  and  their  horses  in  armor,  so  as  to  be 
almost  invulnerable,  whilst  the  common  people  on  foot  were 
left,  without  protection,  to  be  hewn  in  pieces  or  trampled  down 
by  their  betters.  Who  that  compares  the  condition  of  Europe 
a  few  years  ago  with  the  present  state  of  the  world  but  must 
bless  God  for  the  change?  The  grand  distinction  of  modern 
times  is,  the  emerging  of  the  people  from  brutal  degradation, 
the  gradual  recognition  of  their  rights,  the  gradual  diffu- 
sion among  them  of  the  means  of  improvement  and  happi- 
ness, the  creation  of  a  new  power  in  the  state — the  power  of 
the  people.  And  it  is  worthy  remark,  that  this  revolution 
is  due  in  a  great  degree  to  religion,  which,  in  the  hands  of 
the  crafty  and  aspiring,  had  bowed  the  multitude  to  the  dust, 
but  which,  in  the  fulness  of  time,  began  to  fulfil  its  mission 
of  freedom.  It  was  religion  which,  by  teaching  men  their 
near  relation  to  God,  awakened  in  them  the  consciousness 
of  their  importance  as  individuals.  It  was  the  struggle  for 
religious  rights  which  opened  men's  eyes  to  all  their  rights.  It 
was  resistance  to  religious  usurpation  which  led  men  to  with- 
stand political  oppression.  It  was  religious  discussion  which 
roused  the  minds  of  all  classes  to  free  and  vigorous  thought. 
It  was  religion  which  armed  the  martyr  and  patriot  in  England 


SELF-CULTURE  6i 

against  arbitrary  power,  which  braced  the  spirits  of  our  fathers 
against  the  perils  of  the  ocean  and  wilderness,  and  sent  them 
to  found  here  the  freest  and  most  equal  state  on  earth. 

Let  us  thank  God  for  what  has  been  gained.  But  let  us  not 
think  everything  gained.  Let  the  people  feel  that  they  have 
only  started  in  the  race.  How  much  remains  to  be  done !  What 
a  vast  amount  of  ignorance,  intemperance,  coarseness,  sensu- 
ality, may  still  be  found  in  our  community!  What  a  vast 
amount  of  mind  is  palsied  and  lost !  When  we  think  that  every 
house  might  be  cheered  by  intelligence,  disinterestedness,  and 
refinement,  and  then  remember  in  how  many  houses  the  higher 
powers  and  affections  of  human  nature  are  buried  as  in  tombs, 
what  a  darkness  gathers  over  society !  And  how  few  of  us  are 
moved  by  this  moral  desolation !  How  few  understand  that  to 
raise  the  depressed,  by  a  wise  culture,  to  the  dignity  of  men,  is 
the  highest  end  of  the  social  state?  Shame  on  us,  that  the 
worth  of  a  fellow-creature  is  so  little  felt. 

I  would  that  I  could  speak  with  an  awakening  voice  to  the 
people  of  their  wants,  their  privileges,  their  responsibilities.  I 
would  say  to  them.  You  cannot,  without  guilt  and  disgrace,  stop 
where  you  are.  The  past  and  the  present  call  on  you  to  ad- 
vance. Let  what  you  have  gained  be  an  impulse  to  something 
higher.  Your  nature  is  too  great  to  be  crushed.  You  were  not 
created  what  you  are,  merely  to  toil,  eat,  drink,  and  sleep,  like 
the  inferior  animals.  If  you  will,  you  can  rise.  No  power  in 
society,  no  hardship  in  your  condition  can  depress  you,  keep 
you  down,  in  knowledge,  power,  virtue,  influence,  but  by  your 
own  consent.  Do  not  be  lulled  to  sleep  by  the  flatteries  which 
you  hear,  as  if  your  participation  in  the  national  sovereignty 
made  you  equal  to  the  noblest  of  your  race.  You  have  many 
and  great  deficiencies  to  be  remedied ;  and  the  remedy  lies,  not 
in  the  ballot-box,  not  in  the  exercise  of  your  political  powers, 
but  in  the  faithful  education  of  yourselves  and  your  children. 
These  truths  you  have  often  heard  and  slept  over.  Awake! 
Resolve  earnestly  on  self-culture.  Make  yourselves  worthy  of 
your  free  institutions,  and  strengthen  and  perpetuate  them  by 
your  intelligence  and  your  virtues. 


THE    MUTABILITY    OF    LITERATURE 

BY 

WASHINGTON    IRVING 


WASHINGTON  IRVING 
1783— 1859 

The  youngest  of  eleven  children,  Washington  Irving  was  born  in  New 
York  City  in  1783.  He  received  only  a  common  school  education,  but 
soon  developed  a  marked  taste  for  literature,  which  was  encouraged  and 
confirmed  by  the  success  of  some  contributions  to  a  paper  edited  by  one 
of  his  older  brothers.  Ill-health  suggested  a  trip  to  Europe.  He  re- 
mained two  years,  and  the  mental  impressions  and  stimulus  he  received 
were  such  that  this  journey  may  properly  be  regarded  as  his  university 
education.  On  his  return,  in  1807,  Irving  helped  to  launch  a  periodical 
called  "  Salmagundi,"  in  frank  imitation  of  the  "  Spectator,"-  which  was 
well  received.  In  1809  he  published  his  "  History  of  New  York,  by  Died- 
rich  Knickerbocker,"  the  most  delightful  and  ably  sustained  burlesque 
in  American  literature.  This  work  at  once  made  Irving  the  most  noted 
of  American  men  of  letters,  but  his  happiness  was  clouded  by  the  death 
of  the  young  lady  whom  he  was  engaged  to  marry.  Although  he  re- 
covered from  the  blow,  he  never  married.  Owing  to  the  business  re- 
verses of  a  mercantile  house  in  which  Irving  was  interested,  he  deter- 
mined to  rely  henceforth  upon  his  literary  efforts  for  a  livelihood.  In 
1819  he  published  the  "  Sketch  Book."  Murray,  the  English  publisher 
having  at  first  refused  it,  only  undertook  the  venture  on  the  personal 
solicitation  of  Walter  Scott.  It  proved  a  great  success,  both  in  England 
and  America.  "  Bracebridge  Hall "  followed  in  1822.  These  books 
contain  some  of  his  finest  work,  and  are  widely  studied  as  models 
of  English  composition.  After  publishing  "  Tales  of  a  Traveller  "  in 
1824,  Irving  went  to  Spain  for  the  purpose  of  translating  some  newly 
discovered  papers  referring  to  Columbus.  Becoming  interested  in  the 
subject,  he  wrote  his  admirable  "  History  of  Columbus,"  and  this  was 
followed  by  the  "  Conquest  of  Granada,"  "  The  Alhambra,"  and  several 
other  charming  books  on  early  Spanish  history. 

In  1832  Irving  returned  to  the  United  States,  after  an  absence  of 
seven  years,  being  everywhere  received  with  genuine  enthusiasm.  He 
now  purchased  the  beautiful  cottage  "  Sunnyside  "  at  Tarrvtown-on- 
the-Hudson  to  pass  here  quietly,  as  he  thought,  his  remaining  years. 
In  1842,  however,  he  returned  once  more  to  Europe,  this  time  in  the 
honored  capacity  of  American  Minister  to  Spain,  an  office  which  he 
filled  with  distinction  for  four  years.  Having  served  his  country  well, 
he  now  devoted  himself  to  preparing  his  "  Life  of  Washington."  This 
work  of  five  volumes  he  only  completed  at  the  cost  of  great  physical 
suffering.  He  died  in  his  Sunnyside  home  at  Tarrytown,  in  1859,  at 
the  age  of  seventy-six. 

Irving's  position  in  American  literature  is  deservedly  high.  Not  only 
was  he  the  first  of  the  group  of  writers  who  are  the  founders  of  Ameri- 
can literature,  but  he  was  the  first  American  writer  to  arouse  the 
interest  of  Englishmen,  or,  as  Thackeray's  graceful  phrase  puts  it, 
"  the  first  ambassador  whom  the  New  World  of  Letters  sent  to  the 
Old."  Irving  was  not  a  versatile  writer.  He  wrote  no  poetry.  His 
essay  on  "  The  Mutability  of  Literature  "  is  one  of  the  most  important 
of  his  papers  in  the  essay  style.  His  is  master  of  the  short  story,  and 
several  of  his  efforts  in  this  field  rank  among  the  finest  in  all  literature. 
Diedrich  Knickerbocker,  Sleepy  Hollow,  Ichabod  Crane,  and  especially 
Rip  Van  Winkle,  have  become  household  names.  His  style  is  clear, 
musical,  full  of  delicate  touches,  and  pervaded  with  an  indescribable 
charm  that  emanated  from  the  genial  character  of  the  man. 


64 


THE  MUTABILITY   OF   LITERATURE 

A  Colloquy  in  Westminster  Abbey 

I  know  that  all  beneath  the  moon  decays, 
And  what  by  mortals  in  this  world  is  brought, 
In  time's  great  period  shall  return  to  nought. 

I  know  that  all  the  muse's  heavenly  lays, 
With  toil  of  sprite  which  are  so  dearly  bought, 
As  idle  sounds,  of  few  or  none  are  sought ; 

That  there  is  nothing  lighter  than  mere  praise. 

— Drummond  of  Hawthornden. 

THERE  are  certain  half-dreaming  moods  of  mind,  in 
which  we  naturally  steal  away  from  noise  and  glare, 
and  seek  some  quiet  haunt,  where  we  may  indulge  our 
reveries  and  build  our  air-castles  undisturbed.  In  such  a  mood 
I  was  loitering  about  the  old  gray  cloisters  of  Westminster  Ab- 
bey, enjoying  that  luxury  of  wandering  thought  which  one  is 
apt  to  dignify  with  the  name  of  reflection ;  when  suddenly  an  in- 
terruption of  madcap  boys  from  Westminster  School,  playing 
at  football,  broke  in  upon  the  monastic  stillness  of  the  place, 
making  the  vaulted  passages  and  mouldering  tombs  echo  with 
their  merriment.  I  sought  to  take  refuge  from  their  noise  by 
penetrating  still  deeper  into  the  solitudes  of  the  pile,  and  ap- 
plied to  one  of  the  vergers  for  admission  to  the  library.  He 
conducted  me  through  a  portal  rich  with  the  crumbling  sculpt- 
ure of  former  ages,  which  opened  upon  a  gloomy  passage  lead- 
ing to  the  chapter-house  and  the  chamber  in  which  Doomsday 
Book  is  deposited.  Just  within  the  passage  is  a  small  door  on 
the  left.  To  this  the  verger  applied  a  key ;  it  was  double-locked, 
and  opened  with  some  difficulty,  as  if  seldom  used.  We  now 
ascended  a  dark,  narrow  staircase,  and,  passing  through  a 
second  door,  entered  the  library. 

I  found  myself  in  a  lofty  antique  hall,  the  roof  supported  by 
massive  joints  of  old  English  oak.     It  was  soberly  lighted  by  a 
5  65 


ee  IRVING 

row  of  Gothic  windows  at  a  considerable  height  from  the  floor, 
and  which  apparently  opened  upon  the  roofs  of  the  cloisters. 
An  ancient  picture  of  some  reverend  dignitary  of  the  Church  in 
his  robes  hung  over  the  fireplace.  Around  the  hall  and  in  a 
small  gallery  were  the  books,  arranged  in  carved  oaken  cases. 
They  consisted  principally  of  old  polemical  writers,  and  were 
much  more  worn  by  time  than  use.  In  the  centre  of  the  library 
was  a  solitary  table  with  two  or  three  books  on  it,  an  inkstand 
without  ink,  and  a  few  pens  parched  by  long  disuse.  The  place 
seemed  fitted  for  quiet  study  and  profound  meditation.  It  was 
buried  deep  among  the  massive  walls  of  the  abbey,  and  shut  up 
from  the  tumult  of  the  world.  I  could  only  hear  now  and  then 
the  shouts  of  the  schoolboys  faintly  swelling  from  the  cloisters, 
and  the  sound  of  a  bell  tolling  for  prayers,  echoing  soberly  along 
the  roofs  of  the  abbey.  By  degrees  the  shouts  of  merriment 
grew  fainter  and  fainter,  and  at  length  died  away;  the  bell 
ceased  to  toll,  and  a  profound  silence  reigned  through  the  dusky 
hall. 

I  had  taken  down  a  little  thick  quarto,  curiously  bound  in 
parchment,  with  brass  clasps,  and  seated  myself  at  the  table  in 
a  venerable  elbow-chair.  Instead  of  reading,  however,  I  was 
beguiled  by  the  solemn  monastic  air,  and  lifeless  quiet  of  the 
place,  into  a  train  of  musing.  As  I  looked  around  upon  the  old 
volumes  in  their  mouldering  covers,  thus  ranged  on  the  shelves, 
and  apparently  never  disturbed  in  their  repose,  I  could  not  but 
consider  the  library  a  kind  of  literary  catacomb,  where  authors, 
like  mummies,  are  piously  entombed,  and  left  to  blacken  and 
moulder  in  dusty  oblivion. 

How  much,  thought  I,  has  each  of  these  volumes,  now  thrust 
aside  with  such  indifference,  cost  some  aching  head!  how 
many  weary  days!  how  many  sleepless  nights!  How  have 
their  authors  buried  themselves  in  the  solitude  of  cells  and 
cloisters;  shut  themselves  up  from  the  face  of  man,  and  the 
still  more  blessed  face  of  nature ;  and  devoted  themselves  to 
painful  research  and  intense  reflection !  And  all  for  what  ?  to 
occupy  an  inch  of  dusty  shelf — to  have  the  title  of  their  works 
read  now  and  then  in  a  future  age,  by  sorne  drowsy  churchman 
or  casual  straggler  like  myself;  and  in  another  age  to  be  lost, 
even  to  remembrance.  Such  is  the  amount  of  this  boasted  im- 
mortality.   A  mere  temporary  rumor,  a  local  sound ;  like  the 


THE   MUTABILITY   OF   LITERATURE  67 

tone  of  that  bell  which  has  just  tolled  among  these  towers,  fill- 
ing the  ear  for  a  moment — lingering  transiently  in  echo — and 
then  passing  away  like  a  thing  that  was  not ! 

While  I  sat  half  murmuring,  half  meditating  these  unprofit- 
able speculations,  with  my  head  resting  on  my  hand,  I  was 
thrumming  with  the  other  hand  upon  the  quarto,  until  I  acci- 
dentally loosened  the  clasps ;  when,  to  my  utter  astonishment, 
the  little  book  gave  two  or  three  yawns,  like  one  awaking  from 
a  deep  sleep ;  then  a  husky  "  hem  " ;  and  at  length  began  to 
talk.  At  first  its  voice  was  very  hoarse  and  broken,  being  much 
troubled  by  a  cobweb  which  some  studious  spider  had  woven 
across  it ;  and  having  probably  contracted  a  cold  from  long  ex- 
posure to  the  chills  and  damps  of  the  abbey.  In  a  short  time, 
however,  it  became  more  distinct,  and  I  soon  found  it  an  ex- 
ceedingly fluent,  conversable  little  tome.  Its  language,  to  be 
sure,  was  rather  quaint  and  obsolete,  and  its  pronunciation, 
what  in  the  present  day  would  be  deemed  barbarous;  but  I 
shall  endeavor,  as  far  as  I  am  able,  to  render  it  in  modern  par- 
lance. 

It  began  with  railings  about  the  neglect  of  the  world — about 
merit  being  suffered  to  languish  in  obscurity,  and  other  such 
commonplace  topics  of  literary  repining,  and  complained  bit- 
terly that  it  had  not  been  opened  for  more  than  two  centuries. 
That  the  dean  only  looked  now  and  then  into  the  library,  some- 
times took  down  a  volume  or  two,  trifled  with  them  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  returned  them  to  their  shelves.  "  What  a 
plague  do  they  mean,"  said  the  little  quarto,  which  I  began  to 
perceive  was  somewhat  choleric — "  what  a  plague  do  they  mean 
by  keeping  several  thousand  volumes  of  us  shut  up  here,  and 
watched  by  a  set  of  old  vergers,  like  so  many  beauties  in  a 
harem,  merely  to  be  looked  at  now  and  then  by  the  dean? 
Books  were  written  to  give  pleasure  and  to  be  enjoyed ;  and  I 
would  have  a  rule  passed  that  the  dean  should  pay  each  of  us  a 
visit  at  least  once  a  year ;  or,  if  he  is  not  equal  to  the  task,  let 
them  once  in  a  while  turn  loose  the  whole  School  of  West- 
minster among  us,  that  at  any  rate  we  may  now  and  then  have 
an  airing." 

"  Softly,  my  worthy  friend,"  replied  I ;  "  you  are  not  aware 
how  much  better  you  are  off  than  most  books  of  your  genera- 
tion.   By  being  stored  away  in  this  ancient  library,  you  are  like 


68  IRVING 

the  treasured  remains  of  those  saints  and  monarchs  which  lie 
enshrined  in  the  adjoining  chapels ;  while  the  remains  of  your 
contemporary  mortals,  left  to  the  ordinary  course  of  nature, 
have  long  since  returned  to  dust." 

*'  Sir,"  said  the  little  tome,  ruffling  his  leaves  and  looking 
big,  "  I  was  written  for  all  the  world,  not  for  the  bookworms  of 
an  abbey.  I  was  intended  to  circulate  from  hand  to  hand,  like 
other  great  contemporary  works ;  but  here  have  I  been  clasped 
up  for  more  than  two  centuries,  and  might  have  silently  fallen  a 
prey  to  these  worms  that  are  playing  the  very  vengeance  with 
my  intestines,  if  you  had  not  by  chance  given  me  an  opportunity 
of  uttering  a  few  last  words  before  I  go  to  pieces." 

"  My  good  friend,"  rejoined  I,  "  had  you  been  left  to  the 
circulation  of  which  you  speak,  you  would  long  ere  this  have 
been  no  more.  To  judge  from  your  physiognomy,  you  are 
now  well  stricken  in  years :  very  few  of  your  contemporaries 
can  be  at  present  in  existence;  and  those  few  owe  their  lon- 
gevity to  being  immured  like  yourself  in  old  libraries ;  which, 
suffer  me  to  add,  instead  of  likening  to  harems,  you  might  more 
properly  and  gratefully  have  compared  to  those  infifmaries  at- 
tached to  religious  estabhshments,  for  the  benefit  of  the  old  and 
decrepit,  and  where,  by  quiet  fostering  and  no  employment, 
they  often  endure  to  an  amazingly  good-for-nothing  old  age. 
You  talk  of  your  contemporaries  as  if  in  circulation — where  do 
we  meet  with  their  works  ?  What  do  we  hear  of  Robert  Grosse- 
teste,  of  Lincoln  ?  No  one  could  have  toiled  harder  than  he  for 
immortahty.  He  is  said  to  have  written  nearly  two  hundred 
volumes.  He  built,  as  it  were,  a  pyramid  of  books  to  per- 
petuate his  name  ;  but,  alas !  the  pyramid  has  long  since  fallen, 
and  only  a  few  fragments  are  scattered  in  various  libraries, 
where  they  are  scarcely  disturbed  even  by  the  antiquarian. 
What  do  we  hear  of  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  the  historian,  an- 
tiquary, philosopher,  theologian,  and  poet?  He  declined  two 
bishoprics,  that  he  might  shut  himself  up  and  write  for  pos- 
terity :  but  posterity  never  inquires  after  his  labors.  What  of 
Henry  of  Huntingdon,  who,  besides  a  learned  history  of  Eng- 
land, wrote  a  treatise  on  the  contempt  of  the  world,  which  the 
world  has  revenged  by  forgetting  him?  What  is  quoted  of 
Joseph  of  Exeter,  styled  the  miracle  of  his  age  in  classical  com- 
position ?    Of  his  three  great  heroic  poems  one  is  lost  forever, 


THE   MUTABILITY  OF   LITERATURE  69 

excepting  a  mere  fragment ;  the  others  are  known  only  to  a  few 
of  the  curious  in  literature ;  and  as  to  his  love-verses  and  epi- 
grams, they  have  entirely  disappeared.  What  is  in  current  use 
of  John  Wallis,  the  Franciscan,  who  acquired  the  name  of  the 
'  Tree  of  Life '  ?  Of  William  of  Malmesbury ;  of  Simeon  of 
Durham ;  of  Benedict  of  Peterborough ;  of  John  Hanvill  of  St. 
Albans;  of " 

"  Prithee,  friend,"  cried  the  quarto,  in  a  testy  tone,  "  how  old 
do  you  think  me  ?  You  are  talking  of  authors  that  lived  before 
my  time,  and  wrote  either  in  Latin  or  French,  so  that  they  in 
a  manner  expatriated  themselves,  and  deserved  to  be  forgot- 
ten ;  ^  but  I,  sir,  was  ushered  into  the  world  from  the  press  of  the 
renowned  Wynkyn  de  Worde.  I  was  written  in  my  own  native 
tongue,  at  a  time  when  the  language  had  become  fixed ;  and 
indeed  I  was  considered  a  model  of  pure  and  elegant  English." 

(I  should  observe  that  these  remarks  were  couched  in  such 
intolerably  antiquated  terms,  that  I  have  had  infinite  difficulty 
in  rendering  them  into  modern  phraseology.) 

"  I  cry  your  mercy,"  said  I,  "  for  mistaking  your  age ;  but  it 
matters  Httle :  almost  all  the  writers  of  your  time  have  likewise 
passed  into  forgetfulness ;  and  De  Worde's  publications  are 
mere  literary  rarities  among  book-collectors.  The  purity  and 
stability  of  language,  too,  on  which  you  found  your  claims  to 
perpetuity,  have  been  the  fallacious  dependence  of  authors  of 
every  age,  even  back  to  the  times  of  the  worthy  Robert  of  Glou- 
cester, who  wrote  his  history  in  rhymes  of  mongrel  Saxon.^ 
Even  now  many  talk  of  Spenser's  '  Well  of  pure  English  unde- 
filed '  as  if  the  language  ever  sprang  from  a  well  or  fountain- 
head,  and  was  not  rather  a  mere  confluence  of  various  tongues, 
perpetually  subject  to  changes  and  intermixtures.  It  is  this 
which  has  made  English  literature  so  extremely  mutable,  and 
the  reputation  built  upon  it  so  fleeting.  Unless  thought  can  be 
committed  to  something  more  permanent  and  unchangeable 

1  "  In  Latin  and  French  hath  many  Gowre,  in  the  time  of  Richard  the  Sec- 
soueraine  wittes  had  great  delyte  to  en-  ond,  and  after  them  of  John  Scogan  and 
dite,  and  have  many  noble  thinges  ful-  John  Lydgate,  monke  of  Berrie,  our 
filde,  but  certes  there  ben  some  that  said  toong  was  brought  to  an  excellent 
speaken  their  poisye  in  French,  of  which  passe,  notwithstanding  that  it  never 
speche  the  Frenchmen  have  as  ^ood  a  came  unto  the  type  of  perfection  until 
fantasye  as  we  have  in  hearymg  of  the  time  of  Queen  Elizabeth,  wherein 
Frenchmen's  Englishe."— C/tawcer,  "Tes-  John  Jewell,  Bishop  of  Sarum,  John 
tament  of  Love."  Fox,  and  sundrie  learned  and  excellent 

2  Holinshed,  in  his  "  Chronicle,"  ob-  writers,  have  fully  accomplished  the  or- 
serves:  "Afterwards,  also,  by  deligent  nature  of  the  same,  to  their  great  praise 
travell  of  Gefiry  Chaucer  and  of  John  and  immortal  commendation." 


70  IRVING 

than  such  a  medium,  even  thought  must  share  the  fate  of  every- 
thing else,  and  fall  into  decay.  This  should  serve  as  a  check 
upon  the  vanity  and  exultation  of  the  most  popular  writer.  He 
finds  the  language  in  which  he  has  embarked  his  fame  gradually 
altering,  and  subject  to  the  dilapidations  of  time  and  the  caprice 
of  fashion.  He  looks  back  and  beholds  the  early  authors  of  his 
country,  once  the  favorites  of  their  day,  supplanted  by  modern 
writers.  A  few  short  ages  have  covered  them  with  obscurity, 
and  their  merits  can  only  be  relished  by  the  quaint  taste  of  the 
bookworm.  And  such,  he  anticipates,  will  be  the  fate  of  his 
own  work,  which,  however  it  may  be  admired  in  its  day,  and 
held  up  as  a  model  of  purity,  will  in  the  course  of  years  grow 
antiquated  and  obsolete ;  until  it  shall  become  almost  as  unin- 
telligible in  its  native  land  as  an  Egyptian  obeHsk,  or  one  of 
those  Runic  inscriptions  said  to  exist  in  the  deserts  of  Tartary. 
I  declare,"  added  I,  with  some  emotion,  "  when  I  contemplate  a 
modern  library,  filled  with  new  works,  in  all  the  bravery  of 
rich  gilding  and  binding,  I  feel  disposed  to  sit  down  and  weep ; 
like  the  good  Xerxes,  when  he  surveyed  his  army,  pranked  out 
in  all  the  splendor  of  military  array,  and  reflected  that  in  one 
hundred  years  not  one  of  them  would  be  in  existence !  " 

**  Ah,"  said  the  little  quarto,  with  a  heavy  sigh,  "  I  see  how 
it  is ;  these  modern  scribblers  have  superseded  all  the  good  old 
authors.  I  suppose  nothing  is  read  nowadays  but  Sir  Philip 
Sidney's  *  Arcadia,'  Sackville's  stately  plays,  and  '  Mirror  for 
Magistrates,'  or  the  fine-spun  euphuisms  of  the  '  unparalleled 
John  Lyly.'  " 

"  There  you  are  again  mistaken,"  said  I ;  '*  the  writers  whom 
you  suppose  in  vogue,  because  they  happened  to  be  so  when 
you  were  last  in  circulation,  have  long  since  had  their  day. 
Sir  Philip  Sidney's  *  Arcadia,'  the  immortality  of  which  was 
so  fondly  predicted  by  his  admirers,^  and  which,  in  truth,  is  full 
of  noble  thoughts,  delicate  images,  and  graceful  turns  of  lan- 
guage, is  now  scarcely  ever  mentioned.  Sackville  has  strutted 
into  obscurity ;  and  even  Lyly,  though  his  writings  were  once 
the  delight  of  a  court,  and  apparently  perpetuated  by  a  proverb, 

'"Live  ever  sweete  booke;  the  sim-  the  pith  of  morale  and  intellectual  vir- 
ple  image  of  his  gentle  witt,  and  the  tues,  the  arme  of  Bellona  in  the  field, 
golden-pillar  of  his  noble  courage;  and  the  tonge  of  Suada  in  the  chamber,  the 
ever  notify  unto  the  world  that  thy  sprite  of  Practise  in  esse,  and  the  para- 
writer  was  the  secretary  of  eloquence,  gon  of  excellency  in  print."— Harvey 
the  breath  of  the  muses,  the  honey-bee  Pierce,  "  Supererogation." 
of  the  daintyest  flowers  of  witt  and  arte, 


THE   MUTABILITY   OF   LITERATURE  71 

is  now  scarcely  known  even  by  name.  A  whole  crowd  of  au- 
thors who  wrote  and  wrangled  at  the  time  have  likewise  gone 
down,  with  all  their  writings  and  their  controversies.  Wave 
after  wave  of  succeeding  literature  has  rolled  over  them,  until 
they  are  buried  so  deep  that  it  is  only  now  and  then  that  some 
industrious  diver  after  fragments  of  antiquity  brings  up  a  speci- 
men for  the  gratification  of  the  curious. 

"  For  my  part,"  I  continued,  ''  I  consider  this  mutability  of 
language  a  wise  precaution  of  £rpyjdence  for  the  benefit  of  the 
world  at^  large,  and  of  authors  in  particular.  To  reason  from 
analog,  we  daily  behold  the  varied  and  beautiful  tribes  of  vege- 
tables springing  up,  flourishing,  adorning  the  fields  for  a  short 
time,  and  then  fading  into  dust, to  make  way  for  their  successors. 
Were  not  this  the  case,  the  fecundity  of  nature  would  be  a  griev- 
ance instead  of  a  blessing.  The  earth  would  groan  with  rank 
and  excessive  vegetation,  and  its  surface  become  a  tangled  wil- 
derness. In  like  manner  the  works  of  genius  and  learning  de- 
chne,  and  make  way  for  subsequent  productions.  Language 
gradually  varies,  and  with  it  fade  away  the  writings  of  authors 
who  have  flourished  their  allotted  time ;  otherwise,  the  creative 
powers  of  genius  would  overstock  the  world,  and  the  mind 
would  be  completely  bewildered  in  the  endless  mazes  of  Htera- 
ture.  Formerly  there  were  some  restraints  on  this  excessive 
multiplication.  Works  had  to  be  transcribed  by  hand,  which 
was  a  slow  and  laborious  operation  ;  they  were  written  either  on 
parchment,  which  was  expensive,  so  that  one  work  was  often 
erased  to  make  way  for  another;  or  on  papyrus,  which  was 
fragile  and  extremely  perishable.  Authorship  was  a  limited 
and  unprofitable  craft,  pursued  chiefly  by  monks  in  the  leisure 
and  solitude  of  their  cloisters.  The  accumulation  of  manu- 
scripts was  slow  and  costly,  and  confined  almost  entirely  to 
monasteries.  To  these  circumstances  it  may,  in  some  measure, 
be  owing  that  we  have  not  been  inundated  by  the  intellect  of 
antiquity ;  that  the  fountains  of  thought  have  not  been  broken 
up,  and  modern  genius  drowned  in  the  deluge.  But  the  in- 
ventions of  paper  and  the  press  have  put  an  end  to  all  these 
restraints.  They  have  made  everyone  a  writer,  and  enabled 
every  mind  to  pour  itself  into  print,  and  diflfuse  itself  over  the 
whole  intellectual  world.  The  consequences  are  alarming.  The 
stream  of  literature  has  swollen  into  a  torrent — augmented  into 


72  IRVING 

a  river — expanded  into  a  sea.  A  few  centuries  since  five  or  six 
hundred  manuscripts  constituted  a  great  library;  but  what 
would  you  say  to  libraries  such  as  actually  exist  containing  three 
or  four  hundred  thousand  volumes ;  legions  of  authors  at  the 
same  time  busy ;  and  the  press  going  on  with  activity,  to  double 
and  quadruple  the  number.  Unless  some  unforeseen  mortality 
should  break  out  among  the  progeny  of  the  Muse,  now  that  she 
has  become  so  prolific,  I  tremble  for  posterity.  I  fear  the  mere 
fluctuation  of  language  will  not  be  sufficient.  Criticism  may 
do  much.  It  increases  with  the  increase  of  literature,  and  re- 
sembles one  of  those  salutary  checks  on  population  spoken  of 
by  economists.  All  possible  encouragement,  therefore,  should 
be  given  to  the  growth  of  critics,  good  or  bad.  But  I  fear  all 
will  be  in  vain ;  let  criticism  do  what  it  may,  writers  will  write, 
printers  will  print,  and  the  world  will  inevitably  be  overstocked 
with  good  books.  It  will  soon  be  the  employment  of  a  lifetime 
merely  to  learn  their  names.  Many  a  man  of  passable  informa- 
tion, at  the  present  day,  reads  scarcely  anything  but  reviews ; 
and  before  long  a  man  of  erudition  will  be  little  better  than  a 
mere  walking  catalogue." 

"  My  very  good  sir,"  said  the  little  quarto,  yawning  most 
drearily  in  my  face,  *'  excuse  my  interrupting  you,  but  I  per- 
ceive you  are  rather  given  to  prose.  I  would  ask  the  fate  of  an 
author  who  was  making  some  noise  just  as  I  left  the  world. 
His  reputation,  however,  was  considered  quite  temporary.  The 
learned  shook  their  heads  at  him,  for  he  was  a  poor  half-edu- 
cated varlet,  that  knew  little  of  Latin,  and  nothing  of  Greek,  and 
had  been  obHged  to  run  the  country  for  deer-stealing.  I  think 
his  name  was  Shakespeare.  I  presume  he  soon  sunk  into  ob- 
livion." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  said  I,  "  it  is  owing  to  that  very  man  that 
the  literature  of  his  period  has  experienced  a  duration  beyond 
the  ordinary  term  of  English  literature.  There  rise  authors  now 
and  then,  who  seem  proof  against  the  mutability  of  language, 
because  they  have  rooted  themselves  in  the  unchanging  princi- 
ples of  human  nature.  They  are  like  gigantic  trees  that  we 
sometimes  see  on  the  banks  of  a  stream ;  which,  by  their  vast 
and  deep  roots,  penetrating  through  the  mere  surface,  and  lay- 
ing hold  on  the  very  foundations  of  the  earth,  preserve  the  soil 
around  them  from  being  swept  away  by  the  ever-flowing  cur- 


THE   MUTABILITY   OF   LITERATURE 


73 


rent,  and  hold  up  many  a  neighboring  plant,  and,  perhaps, 
worthless  weed,  to  perpetuity.  Such  is  the  case  with  Shake- 
speare, whom  we  behold  defying  the  encroachments  of  time, 
retaining  in  modern  use  the  language  and  literature  of  his  day, 
and  giving  duration  to  many  an  indifferent  author,  merely  from 
having  flourished  in  his  vicinity.  But  even  he,  I  grieve  to  say, 
is  gradually  assuming  the  tint  of  age,  and  his  whole  form  is 
overrun  by  a  profusion  of  commentators,  who,  like  clambering 
vines  and  creepers,  almost  bury  the  noble  plant  that  upholds 
them." 

Here  the  little  quarto  began  to  heave  his  sides  and  chuckle, 
until  at  length  he  broke  out  in  a  plethoric  fit  of  laughter  that 
had  wellnigh  choked  him,  by  reason  of  his  excessive  corpulency. 
''  Mighty  well!  "  cried  he,  as  soon  as  he  could  recover  breath; 
"  mighty  well !  and  so  you  would  persuade  me  that  the  litera- 
ture of  an  age  is  to  be  perpetuated  by  a  vagabond  deer-stealer! 
by  a  man  without  learning;  by  a  poet,  forsooth — a  poet!" 
And  here  he  wheezed  forth  another  fit  of  laughter. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  somewhat  nettled  at  this  rudeness,  which, 
however,  I  pardoned  on  account  of  his  having  flourished  in  a 
less  polished  age.  I  determined,  nevertheless,  not  to  give  up 
my  point. 

"  Yes,"  resumed  I,  positively,  "  a  poet;  for  of  all  writers  he 
has  the  best  chance  for  immortality.  Others  may  write  from 
the  head,  but  he  writes  from  the  heart,  and  the  heart  will  always 
understand  him.  He  is  the  faithful  portrayer  of  nature,  whose 
features  are  always  the  same,  and  always  interesting.  Prose- 
writers  are  voluminous  and  unwieldy;  their  pages  are  crowded 
with  commonplaces,  and  their  thoughts  expanded  into  tedious- 
ness.  But  with  the  true  poet  everything  is  terse,  touching,  or 
brilliant.  He  gives  the  choicest  thoughts  in  the  choicest  lan- 
guage. He  illustrates  them  by  everything  that  he  sees  most 
striking  in  nature  and  art.  He  enriches  them  by  pictures  of 
human  life,  such  as  it  is  passing  before  him.  His  writings, 
therefore,  contain  the  spirit,  the  aroma,  if  I  may  use  the  phrase, 
of  the  age  in  which  he  lives.  They  are  caskets  which  enclose 
within  a  small  compass  the  wealth  of  the  language — its  family 
jewels,  which  are  thus  transmitted  in  a  portable  form  to  pos- 
terity. The  setting  may  occasionally  be  antiquated,  and  require 
now  and  then  to  be  renewed,  as  in  the  case  of  Chaucer;  but  the 


74  IRVING 

brilliancy  and  intrinsic  value  of  the  gems  continue  unaltered. 
Cast  a  look  back  over  the  long  reach  of  literary  history.  What 
vast  valleys  of  dulness,  filled  with  monkish  legends  and  academ- 
ical controversies !  what  bogs  of  theological  speculations !  what 
dreary  wastes  of  metaphysics !  Here  and  there  only  do  we  be- 
hold the  heaven-illuminated  bards,  elevated  like  beacons  on 
their  widely  separate  heights,  to  transmit  the  pure  light  of 
poetical  intelHgence  from  age  to  age."  *  ^ 

I  was  just  about  to  launch  forth  into  eulogiums  upon  the 
poets  of  the  day,  when  the  sudden  opening  of  the  door  caused 
me  to  turn  my  head.  It  was  the  verger,  who  came  to  inform 
me  that  it  was  time  to  close  the  library.  I  sought  to  have  a 
parting  word  with  the  quarto,  but  the  worthy  little  tome  was 
silent ;  the  clasps  were  closed ;  and  it  looked  perfectly  uncon- 
scious of  all  that  had  passed.  I  have  been  to  the  library  two  or 
three  times  since,  and  have  endeavored  to  draw  it  into  further 
conversation,  but  in  vain ;  and  whether  all  this  rambling  col- 
loquy actually  took  place,  or  whether  it  was  another  of  those 
odd  day-dreams  to  which  I  am  subject,  I  have  never  to  this 
moment  been  able  to  discover. 

Thorow  earth  and  waters  deepe.  As  are  the  golden  leves 

The  pen  by  skill  doth  passe;  That  drop  from  poet's  head! 

And  featly  nyps  the  worldes  abuse,  Which    doth    surmount    our    common 

And  shoes  us  in  a  glasse  talke 

The  vertu  and  the  vice  As  farre  as  dross  doth  lead. 

Of  every  wight  alyve:  _"  Churchyard." 

The  honey-comb  that  bee  doth  make 

Is  not  so  sweet  in  hyve, 


KEAN'S    ACTING 


BY 


RICHARD    HENRY    DANA 


RICHARD   HENRY   DANA 
1787— 1879 

Richard  Henry  Dana,  whose  career  must  not  be  confounded  with 
that  of  his  son,  Richard  Henry  Dana,  Junior,  the  author  of  "  Two 
Years  before  the  Mast,"  was  born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  in  1787. 
He  spent  three  years  at  Harvard,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  181 1. 
The  law,  however,  had  no  attraction  for  him,  and  he  soon  devoted  him- 
self to  literary  pursuits.  In  1814  he  assisted  in  founding  the  "  North 
American  Review  "  in  Boston,  and  in  1818  became  one  of  its  editors. 
During  this  period  he  contributed  to  that  magazine  a  series  of  critical 
papers,  notably  one  reviewing  the  entire  field  of  English  poetry  down  to 
Wordsworth,  which  gave  proof  of  his  fine  culture  and  literary  ability. 
He  published  two  psychological  novels,  "  Tom  Thornton  "  and  "  Paul 
Felton,"  now  seldom  read,  and  a  volume  of  poems  likewise  too  meta- 
physical to  gain  permanent  popularity. 

His  lectures  on  Shakespeare,  which  were  well  received  and  greatly 
admired,  are  perhaps  his  best  and  most  successful  literary  efifort.  His 
admirable  essay  on  "  Kean's  Acting  "  shows  his  profound  appreciation 
of  Shakespeare,  and  gives  an  excellent  idea  of  his  literary  acumen  and 
artistic  temperament.  Few  dramatic  criticisms  contain  such  subtle  an- 
alyses of  an  actor's  interpretation,  few  are  more  suggestive  and  in- 
structive. In  1850  Dana  published  an  edition  of  his  collected  works  in 
two  volumes.  He  seldom  wrote  for  publication  after  this,  and  was  but 
rarely  seen  in  public,  passing  his  summers  at  Manchester-by-the-Sea, 
and  his  winters  at  Boston.  He  died  in  1879,  at  the  advanced  age  of 
ninety-two. 

Taken  as  a  whole,  Dana's  work  is  somewhat  disappointing,  inas- 
much as  it  failed  in  the  fulfilment  of  the  promises  of  his  youth.  His 
influence  extended  only  to  the  limited  circle  of  the  cultured  and  refined. 
His  literary  style  is  classic  and  severe,  perfectly  polished,  faultless  in 
forrn,  but  somewhat  cold  and  colorless.  In  his  literary  criticisms  he  is 
at  his  best.  Here  his  style  is  admirably  adapted  to  the  subject,  and  his 
,  acute  discernment  and  keen  analytical  powers  find  their  proper  field. 


76 


KEAN^S  ACTING 

I  HAD  scarcely  thought  of  the  theatre  for  several  years,  \ 
when  Kean  arrived  in  this  country ;  and  it  was  more  from  ' 
curiosity  than  from  any  other  motive,  that  I  went  to  see,  \ 
for  the  first  time,  the  great  actor  of  the  age.  I  was  soon  lost  to  | 
the  recollection  of  being  in  a  theatre,  or  looking  upon  a  grand  { 
display  of  the  "  mimic  art."  The  simplicity,  earnestness,  and  \ 
sincerity  of  his  acting  made  me  forgetful  of  the  fiction,  and  i 
bore  me  away  with  the  power  of  reality  and  truth.  If  this  be  | 
acting,  said  I,  as  I  returned  home,  I  may  as  well  make  the  the-  j 
atre  my  school,  and  henceforward  study  nature  at  second  hand,  i 
How  can  I  describe  one  who  is  nearly  as  versatile  and  almost  ; 
as  full  of  beauties  as  nature  itself — who  grows  upon  us  the  i 
more  we  are  acquainted  with  him,  and  makes  us  sensible  that  \ 
the  first  time  we  saw  him  in  any  part,  however  much  he  may  i 
have  moved  us,  we  had  but  a  vague  and  poor  apprehension  of  ; 
the  many  excellencies  of  his  acting.  We  cease  to  consider  it  '' 
as  a  mere  amusement:  It  is  a  great  intellectual  feast;  and  he  | 
who  goes  to  it  with  a  disposition  and  capacity  to  relish  it  will  \ 
receive  from  it  more  nourishment  for  his  mind  than  he  would 
be  likely  to  in  many  other  ways  in  fourfold  the  time.  Our  j 
faculties  are  opened  and  enlivened  by  it;  our  reflections  and  ; 
recollections  are  of  an  elevated  kind ;  and  the  very  voice  which  I 
is  sounding  in  our  ears  long  after  we  have  left  him  creates  an 
inward  harmony  which  is  for  our  good.  '. 

Kean,  in  truth,  stands  very  much  in  that  relation  to  other  \ 
players  whom  we  have  seen,  that  Shakespeare  does  to  other  ] 
dramatists.  One  player  is  called  classical ;  another  makes  fine  I 
points  here,  and  another  there.  Kean  makes  more  fine  points  I 
than  all  of  them  together ;  but  in  him  these  are  only  little  prom-  ; 
inences,  showing  their  bright  heads  above  a  beautifully  un-  ■ 
dulated  surface.  A  constant  change  is  going  on  in  him,  par-  ; 
taking  of  the  nature  of  the  varying  scenes  he  is  passing  through,    \ 

77  i 


78  DANA 

and  the  many  thoughts  and  feelings  which  are  shifting  within 
him. 

In  a  clear  autumnal  day  we  may  see  here  and  there  a  deep 
white  cloud  shining  with  metallic  brightness  against  a  blue  sky, 
and  now  and  then  a  dark  pine  swinging  its  top  in  the  wind  with 
the  melancholy  sound  of  the  sea ;  but  who  can  note  the  shifting 
and  untiring  play  of  the  leaves  of  the  wood  and  their  passing 
hues,  when  each  one  seems  a  living  thing  full  of  delight,  and 
vain  of  its  gaudy  attire  ?  A  sound,  too,  of  universal  harmony 
is  in  our  ears,  and  a  wide-spread  beauty  before  our  eyes,  which 
we  cannot  define;  yet  a  joy  is  in  our  hearts.  Our  delight  in- 
creases in  these,  day  after  day,  the  longer  we  give  ourselves  to 
them,  till  at  last  we  become  as  it  were  a  part  of  the  existence 
without  us.  So  it  is  with  natural  characters.  They  grow  up- 
on us  imperceptibly  till  we  become  fast  bound  up  in  them,  we 
scarce  know  when  or  how.  So  it  will  fare  with  the  actor  who 
is  deeply  filled  with  nature,  and  is  perpetually  throwing  off  her 
beautifu||^jjigng2^;;gfljjgs.  Instead  of  becoming  tired  of  him,  as  we 
do,  after  a  time,  of  others,  he  will  go  on,  giving  something  which 
will  be  new  to  the  observing  mind ;  and  will  keep  the  feelings 
alive,  because  their  action  will  be  natural.  I  have  no  doubt 
that,  excepting  those  who  go  to  a  play  as  children  look  into  a 
show-box  to  admire  and  exclaim  at  distorted  figures,  and  raw, 
unharmonious  colors,  there  is  no  man  of  a  moderately  warm 
temperament,  and  with  a  tolerable  share  of  insight  into  human 
nature,  who  would  not  find  his  interest  in  Kean  increasing  with 
a  study  of  him.  It  is  very  possible  that  the  excitement  would 
in  some  degree  lessen,  but  there  would  be  a  quieter  delight,  in- 
stead of  it,  stealing  upon  him  as  he  became  familiar  with  the 
character  of  his  acting. 

The  versatility  in  his  playing  is  striking.  He  seems  not  the 
same  being,  taking  upon  him  at  one  time  the  character  of  Rich- 
ard, at  another  that  of  Hamlet ;  but  the  two  characters  appear 
before  you  as  distinct  individuals,  who  had  never  known  nor 
heard  of  each  other.  So  completely  does  he  become  the  char- 
acter he  is  to  represent  that  we  have  sometimes  thought  it  a 
reason  why  he  was  not  universally  better  liked  here  in  Richard ; 
and  that  because  the  player  did  not  make  himself  a  little  more 
visible,  he  must  needs  bear  a  share  of  our  hate  towards  the  cruel 
king.     And  this  may  the  more  be  the  case,  as  his  construction  of 


KEAN'S  ACTING  79 

the  character,  whether  right  or  wrong,  creates  in  us  an  unmixed 
disHke  of  Richard,  till  the  anguish  of  his  mind  makes  him  the 
object  of  pity ;  from  which  moment  to  the  close,  Kean  is  allowed 
to  play  the  part  better  than  anyone  has  before  him. 

In  his  highest  wrought  passion,  when  every  limb  and  muscle 
are  alive  and  quivering,  and  his  gestures  hurried  and  violent, 
nothing  appears  ranted  or  over-acted ;  because  he  makes  us  feel 
that,  with  all  this,  there  is  something  still  within  him  vainly 
struggling  for  utterance.  The  very  breaking  and  harshness  of 
his  voice  in  these  parts,  though  upon  the  whole  it  were  better 
otherwise,  help  to  this  impression  upon  us,  and  make  up  in  a 
good  degree  for  the  defect. 

Though  he  is  on  the  very  verge  of  truth  in  his  passionate 
parts,  he  does  not  pass  into  extravagance ;  but  runs  along  the 
dizzy  edge  of  the  roaring  and  beating  sea,  with  feet  as  sure  as 
we  walk  our  parlors.  •We  feel  that  he  is  safe,  for  some  preter- 
natural  spirit  upholds  him  as  it  hurries  him  onward ;  and  while 
all  IS  uptorn  and  tossing  in  the  whirl  of  the  passions,  we  see  that 
there  is  a  power  and  order  over  the  whole. 

A  man  has  feelings  sometimes  which  can  only  be  breathed 
out;  there  is  no  utterance  for  them  in  words.  I  had  hardly 
written  this  when  the  terrible  and  indistinct,  "  Ha !  "  with  which 
Kean  makes  Lear  hail  Cornwall  and  Regan,  as  they  enter,  in 
the  fourth  scene  of  the  second  act,  came  to  my  mind.  That  cry 
seemed  at  the  time  to  take  me  up  and  sweep  me  along  in  its  wild 
swell.  No  description  in  the  world  could  give  a  tolerably  clear 
notion  of  it ;  it  must  be  formed,  as  well  as  it  may  be,  from  what 
has  just  been  said  of  its  effect. 

Kean's  playing  is  frequently  giving  instances  of  various,  in- 
articulate sounds — the  throttled  struggle  of  rage,  and  the  chok- 
ing of  grief — the  broken  laugh  of  extreme  suffering,  when  the 
mind  is  ready  to  deliver  itself  over  to  an  insane  joy — the  utter- 
ance of  over-full  love,  which  cannot,  and  would  not  speak  in 
express  words — and  that  of  bewildering  grief,  which  blanks  all 
the  faculties  of  man. 

No  other  player  whom  I  have  heard  has  attempted  these,  ex- 
cept now  and  then ;  and  should  anyone  have  made  the  trial  in 
the  various  ways  in  which  Kean  gives  them,  no  doubt  he  would 
have  failed.  Kean  thrills  us  with  them  as  if  they  were  wrung 
from  him  in  his  agony.     They  have  no  appearance  of  study  or 


8o  DANA 

artifice.  The  truth  is,  that  the  labor  of  a  mind  of  his  genius 
constitutes  its  existence  and  delight.  It  is  not  like  the  toil  of 
ordinary  men  at  their  task-work.  What  shows  effort  in  them 
comes  from  him  with  the  freedom  and  force  of  nature. 

Some  object  to  the  frequent  use  of  such  sounds ;  and  to  others 
they  are  quite  shocking.  But  those  who  permit  themselves  to 
consider  that  there  are  really  violent  passions  in  man's  nature, 
and  that  they  utter  themselves  a  little  differently  from  our  ordi- 
nary feelings,  understand  and  feel  their  language,  as  they  speak 
to  us  in  Kean.  Probably  no  actor  ever  conceived  passion  with 
the  intenseness  and  life  that  he  does.  It  seems  to  enter  into 
him  and  possess  him,  as  evil  spirits  possessed  men  of  old.  It 
is  curious  to  observe  how  some  who  have  sat  very  contentedly 
year  after  year,  and  called  the  face-making  which  they  have 
seen  expression,  and  the  stage-stride  dignity,  and  the  noisy 
declamation,  and  all  the  rhnf\nrr\nnfi\<j^  of  acting,  energy  and 
passion,  complain  that  Kean  is  apt  to  be  extravagant ;  when  in 
truth  he  seems  to  be  little  more  than  a  simple  personation  of 
the  feeling  or  passion  to  be  expressed  at  the  time. 

It  has  been  so  common  a  saying  that  Lear  is  the  most  difficult 
of  all  characters  to  personate,  that  we  had  taken  it  for  granted 
no  man  could  play  it  so  as  to  satisfy  us.  Perhaps  it  is  the  hard- 
est to  represent.  Yet  the  part  which  has  generally  been  sup- 
posed the  most  difficult,  the  insanity  of  Lear,  is  scarcely  more 
so  than  the  choleric  old  King.  Inefficient  rage  is  almost  always 
ridiculous;  and  an  old  man,  with  a  broken-down  body  and  a 
mind  falling  in  pieces  from  the  violence  of  its  uncontrolled  pas- 
sions, is  in  constant  danger  of  exciting  along  with  our  pity  a 
feeling  of  contempt.  It  is  a  chance  matter  to  which  we  are 
moved.  And  this  it  is  which  makes  the  opening  of  Lear  so  dif- 
ficult. 

We  may  as  well  notice  here  the  objection  which  some  make 
to  the  abrupt  violence  with  which  Kean  begins  in  Lear.  If  this 
is  a  fault,  it  is  Shakespeare,  and  not  Kean,  who  is  to  blame. 
For  we  have  no  doubt  that  he  has  conceived  it  according  to  his 
author.  Perhaps,  however,  the  mistake  lies  in  this  case,  where 
it  does  in  most  others — with  those  who  put  themselves  into  the 
seat  of  judgment  to  pass  upon  greater  men. 

In  most  instances  Shakespeare  has  given  us  the  gradual 
growth  of  a  passion  with  such  little  accompaniments  as  agree 


KEAN'S  ACTING  8i 

with  it,  and  go  to  make  up  the  whole  man.  In  Lear,  his  object 
being  to  represent  the  beginning  and  course  of  insanity,  he  has 
properly  enough  gone  but  a  little  back  of  it,  and  introduced  to 
us  an  old  man  of  good  feelings,  but  one  who  had  lived  without 
any  true  principle  of  conduct,  and  whose  ungoverned  passions 
had  grown  strong  with  age,  and  were  ready,  upon  any  disap- 
pointment, to  make  shipwreck  of  an  intellect  always  weak.  To 
bring  this  about  he  begins  with  an  abruptness  rather  unusual ; 
and  the  old  King  rushes  in  before  us  with  all  his  passions  at 
their  height,  and  tearing  him  like  fiends. 

Kean  gives  this  as  soon  as  a  fit  occasion  offers  itself.  Had 
he  put  more  of  melancholy  and  depression,  and  less  of  rage  into 
the  character,  we  should  have  been  very  much  puzzled  at  his 
so  suddenly  going  mad.  It  would  have  required  the  change  to 
have  been  slower ;  and,  besides,  his  insanity  must  have  been  of 
another  kind.  It  must  have  been  monotonous  and  complain- 
ing, instead  of  continually  varying ;  at  one  time  full  of  grief,  at 
another  playful,  and  then  wild  as  the  winds  that  roared  about 
him,  and  fiery  and  sharp  as  the  lightning  that  shot  by  him.  The 
truth  with  which  he  conceived  this  was  not  finer  than  his  exe- 
cution of  it.  Not  for  an  instant,  in  his  utmost  violence,  did  he 
suffer  the  imbecility  of  the  old  man's  anger  to  touch  upon  the 
ludicrous :  when  nothing  but  the  most  just  conception  and  feel- 
ing of  character  could  have  saved  him  from  it. 

It  has  been  said  that  Lear  was  a  study  for  anyone  who  would 
make  himself  acquainted  with  the  workings  of  an  insane  mind. 
There  is  no  doubt  of  it.  Nor  is  it  less  true  that  the  acting  of 
Kean  was  a  complete  embodying  of  these  workings.  His  eye, 
when  his  senses  are  first  forsaking  him,  giving  a  questioning 
look  at  what  he  saw,  as  if  all  before  him  was  undergoing  a 
strange  and  bewildering  change  which  confused  his  brain — the 
wandering,  lost  motions  of  his  hands,  which  seemed  feeling  for 
something  familiar  to  them,  on  which  they  might  take  hold  and 
be  assured  of  a  safe  reality — the  under  monotone  of  his  voice, 
as  if  he  was  questioning  his  own  being,  and  all  which  surround- 
ed him — the  continuous,  but  slight  oscillating  motion  of  the 
body — all  these  expressed  with  fearful  truth  the  dreamy  state 
of  a  mind  fast  unsettling,  and  making  vain  and  weak  efforts  to 
find  its  way  back  to  its  wonted  reason.  There  was  a  childish, 
feeble  gladness  in  the  eye,  and  a  half  piteous  smile  about  the 
6 


82  DANA 

mouth  at  times,  which  one  could  scarce  look  upon  without  shed- 
ding tears.  As  the  derangement  increased  upon  him,  his  eye 
lost  its  notice  of  what  surrounded  him,  wandering  over  every- 
thing as  if  he  saw  it  not,  and  fastening  upon  the  creatures  of  his 
crazed  brain.  The  helpless  and  delighted  fondness  with  which 
he  clings  to  Edgar  as  an  insane  brother,  is  another  instance  of 
the  justness  of  Kean's  conceptions.  Nor  does  he  lose  the  air  of 
insanity  even  in  the  fine  moralizing  parts,  and  where  he  inveighs 
against  the  corruptions  of  the  world :  There  is  a  madness  even 
in  his  reason. 

The  violent  and  immediate  changes  of  the  passions  in  Lear, 
so  difficult  to  manage  without  offending  us,  are  given  by  Kean 
with  a  spirit  and  with  a  fitness  to  nature  which  we  had  hardly 
imagined  possible.  These  are  equally  well  done  both  before 
and  after  he  loses  his  reason.  The  most  difficult  scene,  in  this 
respect,  is  the  last  interview  between  Lear  and  his  daughters, 
Goneril  and  Regan — (and  how  wonderfully  does  Kean  carry 
it  through!) — the  scene  which  ends  with  the  horrid  shout  and 
cry  with  which  he  runs  out  mad  from  their  presence,  as  if  his 
very  brain  had  taken  fire. 

The  last  scene  which  we  are  allowed  to  have  of  Shakespeare's 
Lear,  for  the  simply  pathetic,  was  played  by  Kean  with  un- 
matched power.  We  sink  down  helpless  under  the  oppressive 
grief.  It  lies  Hke  a  dead  weight  upon  our  bosoms.  We  are 
denied  even  the  relief  of  tears ;  and  are  thankful  for  the  startling 
shudder  that  seizes  us  when  he  kneels  to  his  daughter  in  the 
deploring  weakness  of  his  crazed  grief. 

It  is  lamentable  that  Kean  should  not  be  allowed  to  show  his 
unequalled  powers  in  the  last  scene  of  Lear,  as  Shakespeare  has 
written  it ;  and  that  this  mighty  work  of  genius  should  be  pro- 
faned by  the  miserable,  mawkish  sort  of  Edgar's  and  Cordelia's 
loves :  Nothing  can  surpass  the  impertinence  of  the  man  who 
made  the  change  but  the  folly  of  those  who  sanctioned  it. 

When  I  began,  I  had  no  other  intention  than  that  of  giving  a 
few  general  impressions  made  upon  me  by  Kean's  acting;  but, 
falling  accidentally  upon  his  Lear,  I  have  been  led  into  more 
particulars  than  I  was  aware  of.  It  is  only  to  take  these  as 
some  of  the  instances  of  his  powers  in  Lear,  and  then  to  think 
of  him  as  not  inferior  in  his  other  characters,  and  a  slight  notion 
may  be  formed  of  the  effect  of  Kean's  playing  upon  those  who 


KEAN^S  ACTING  83 

understand  and  like  him.  Neither  this,  nor  all  I  could  say, 
would  reach  his  great  and  various  powers. 

Kean  is  never  behind  his  author ;  but  stands  forward  the  liv- 
ing representative  of  the  character  he  has  drawn.  When  he  is 
not  playing  in  Shakespeare  he  fills  up  where  his  author  is  want- 
ing, and  when  in  Shakespeare,  he  gives  not  only  what  is  set 
down,  but  whatever  the  situation  and  circumstances  attendant 
upon  the  being  he  personates  would  naturally  call  forth.  He 
seems,  at  the  time,  to  have  possessed  himself  of  Shakespeare's 
imagination,  and  to  have  given  it  body  and  form.  Read  any 
scgne  of  Shakespeare — for  instance,  the  last  of  Lear  that  is 
played,  and  see  how  few  words  are  there  set  down,  and  then  re- 
member how  Kean  fills  it  out  with  varied  and  multiplied  ex- 
pressions and  circumstances,  and  the  truth  of  this  remark  will 
be  obvious  at  once.  There  are  few  men,  I  believe,  let  them 
have  studied  the  plays  of  Shakespeare  ever  so  attentively,  who 
can  see  Kean  in  them  without  confessing  that  he  has  helped 
them  almost  as  much  to  a  true  conception  of  the  author  as  their 
own  labors  had  done  for  them. 

It  is  not  easy  to  say  in  what  character  Kean  plays  best.  He 
so  fits  himself  to  each  in  turn  that  if  the  effect  he  produces  at  one 
time  is  less  than  at  another,  it  is  because  of  some  inferiority  in 
stage-effect  in  the  character.  Othello  is  probably  the  greatest 
character  for  stage-effect;  and  Kean  has  an  uninterrupted 
power  over  us  in  playing  it.  When  he  commands,  we  are  awed ; 
when  his  face  is  all  sensitive  with  love,  and  love  thrills  in  his 
soft  tones,  all  that  our  imaginations  had  pictured  to  us  is  real- 
ized. His  jealousy,  his  hate,  his  fixed  purposes,  are  terrific  and 
deadly ;  and  the  groans  wrung  from  him  in  his  grief  have  the 
pathos  and  anguish  of  Esau's  when  he  stood  before  his  old  blind 
father,  and  sent  up  "  an  exceeding  bitter  cry." 

Again,  in  Richard,  how  does  he  hurry  forward  to  his  object, 
sweeping  away  all  between  him  and  it !  The  world  and  its  af- 
fairs are  nothing  to  him  till  he  gains  his  end.  He  is  all  life, 
and  action,  and  haste — he  fills  every  part  of  the  stage,  and  seems 
to  do  all  that  is  done. 

I  have  before  said  that  his  voice  is  harsh  and  breaking  in  his 
high  tones,  in  his  rage,  but  that  this  defect  is  of  little  conse- 
quence in  such  places.  Nor  is  it  well  suited  to  the  more  de- 
clamatory parts.     This  again  is  scarce  worth  considering;  for 


84  DANA 

how  very  little  is  there  of  mere  declamation  in  good  English 
plays !  But  it  is  one  of  the  finest  voices  in  the  world  for  all  the 
passions  and  feelings  which  can  be  uttered  in  the  middle  and 
lower  tones.     In  Lear : 


And  again, 


If  you  have  poison  for  me  I  will  drink  it." 


You  do  me  wrong  to  take  me  o*  the  grave. 
Thou  art  a  soul  in  bliss." 


Why  should  I  cite  passages?  Can  any  man  open  upon  the 
scene  in  which  these  are  contained,  without  Kean's  piteous  looks 
and  tones  being  present  to  him?  And  does  not  the  mere  re- 
membrance of  them,  as  he  reads,  bring  tears  into  his  eyes? 
Yet,  once  more,  in  Othello : 

"  Had  it  pleased  heaven 
To  try  me  with  affliction,"  etc. 

In  the  passage  beginning  with — 

"  O  now  forever 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind," 

there  was  "  a  mysterious  confluence  of  sounds  "  passing  off  into 
infinite  distance,  and  every  thought  and  feeling  within  him 
seemed  travelling  with  them. 

How  very  graceful  he  is  in  Othello.  It  is  not  a  practised, 
educated  grace,  but  the  "  unbought  grace  "  of  his  genius  utter- 
ing itself  in  its  beauty  and  grandeur  in  each  movement  of  the 
outward  man.  When  he  says  to  lago  so  touchingly,  "  Leave 
me,  leave  me,  lago,"  and  turning  from  him,  walks  to  the  back 
of  the  stage,  raising  his  hands,  and  bringing  them  down  upon 
his  head  with  clasped  fingers,  and  stands  thus  with  his  back  to 
us,  there  is  a  grace  and  imposing  grandeur  in  his  figure  which 
we  gaze  on  with  admiration. 

Talking  of  these  things  in  Kean  is  something  like  reading  the 
"  Beauties  of  Shakespeare  " ;  for  he  is  as  good  in  his  subordi- 
nate as  in  his  great  parts.  But  he  must  be  content  to  share  with 
other  men  of  genius,  and  think  himself  fortunate  if  one  in  a 
hundred  sees  his  lesser  beauties,  and  marks  the  truth  and  deli- 


KEAN'S  ACTING  85 

cacy  of  his  under  playing.  For  instance ;  when  he  has  no  share 
in  the  action  going  on,  he  is  not  busy  in  putting  himself  into  at- 
titudes to  draw  attention,  but  stands  or  sits  in  a  simple  posture, 
like  one  with  an  engaged  mind.  His  countenance  is  in  a  state 
of  ordinary  repose,  with  only  a  slight,  general  expression  of 
the  character  of  his  thoughts ;  for  this  is  all  the  face  shows  when 
the  mind  is  taken  up.in  silence  with  its  own  reflections.  It  does 
not  assume  marked  or  violent  expressions,  as  in  soHloquy. 
When  a  man  gives  utterance  to  his  thoughts,  though  alone,  the 
charmed  rest  of  the  body  is  broken;  he  speaks  in  his  gestures 
too,  and  the  countenance  is  put  into  a  sympathizing  action. 

I  was  first  struck  with  this  in  his  Hamlet ;  for  the  deep  and 
quiet  interest  so  marked  in  Hamlet  made  the  justness  of  Kean's 
playing,  in  this  respect,  the  more  obvious. 

Since  then,  I  have  observed  him  attentively,  and  have  found 
the  same  true  acting  in  his  other  characters. 

This  right  conception  of  situation  and  its  general  effect,  seems 
to  require  almost  as  much  genius  as  his  conceptions  of  his  char- 
acters. He  deserves  praise  for  it ;  for  there  is  so  much  of  the 
subtilty  of  nature  in  it,  if  I  may  so  speak,  that  while  a  very 
few  are  able  from  his  help  to  put  themselves  into  the  situation, 
and  admire  the  justness  of  his  acting  in  it,  the  rest,  both  those 
who  like  him  upon  the  whole,  as  well  as  those  who  profess  to 
see  little  that  is  good  in  him,  will  be  very  apt  to  let  it  pass  by 
them  without  observing  it. 

Like  most  men,  however,  Kean  receives  a  partial  reward,  at 
least,  for  his  sacrifice  of  the  praise  of  the  many  to  what  he  thinks 
the  truth.  For  when  he  passes  from  the  state  of  natural  repose, 
even  into  that  of  gentle  motion  and  ordinary  discourse,  he  is 
at  once  filled  with  a  spirit  and  life  which  he  makes  everyone  feel 
who  is  not  armor-proof  against  him.  This  helps  to  the  spark- 
ling brightness  and  warmth  of  his  playing ;  the  grand  secret  of 
which,  like  that  of  colors  in  a  picture,  lies  in  a  just  contrast. 
We  can  all  speculate  concerning  the  general  rules  upon  this; 
but  when  the  man  of  genius  gives  us  their  results,  how  few  are 
there  who  can  trace  them  out  with  an  observant  eye,  or  look 
with  a  full  pleasure  upon  the  grand  whole.  Perhaps  this  very 
beauty  in  Kean  has  helped  to  an  opinion,  which,  no  doubt,  is 
sometimes  true,  that  he  is  too  sharp  and  abrupt.  For  I  well 
remember,  while  once  looking  at  a  picture  in  which  the  shadow 


86  DANA 

of  a  mountain  fell  in  strong  outline  upon  a  stream,  I  overheard 
some  quite  sensible  people  expressing  their  wonder  that  the  ar- 
tist should  have  made  the  water  of  two  colors,  seeing  it  was  all 
one  and  the  same  thing. 

Instances  of  Kean's  keeping  of  situations  were  very  striking 
in  the  opening  of  the  trial  scene  in  the  "  Iron  Chest,"  and  in 
"  Hamlet "  when  the  father's  ghost  tells  the  story  of  his  death. 

The  determined  composure  to  which  he  is  bent  up  in  the  first 
must  be  present  with  everyone  who  saw  him.  And,  though 
from  my  immediate  purpose,  shall  I  pass  by  the  startling  and 
appalling  change,  when  madness  seized  upon  his  brain  with  the 
deadly  swiftness  and  power  of  a  fanged  monster?  Wonder- 
fully as  this  last  part  was  played,  we  cannot  well  imagine  how 
much  the  previous  calm  and  the  suddenness  of  the  unlooked-for 
change  from  it  added  to  the  terror  of  the  scene.  The  temple 
stood  fixed  on  its  foundations ;  the  earthquakes  shook  it,  and  it 
was  a  heap.     Is  this  one  of  Kean's  violent  contrasts  ? 

While  Kean  listened  in  Hamlet  to  the  father's  story  the  en- 
tire man  was  absorbed  in  deep  attention,  mingled  with  a  tem- 
pered awe.  His  posture  was  quite  simple,  with  a  slight  in- 
clination forward.  The  spirit  was  the  spirit  of  his  father  whom 
he  had  loved  and  reverenced,  and  who  was  to  that  moment  ever 
present  in  his  thoughts.  The  first  superstitious  terror  at  meet- 
ing him  had  passed  off.  The  account  of  his  father's  appearance 
given  him  by  Horatio  and  the  watch,  and  his  having  followed 
him  some  distance,  had  in  a  degree  familiarized  him  to  the 
sight,  and  he  stood  before  us  in  the  stillness  of  one  who  was  to 
hear,  then  or  never,  what  was  to  be  told,  but  without  that  eager 
reaching  forward  which  other  players  give,  and  which  would 
be  right,  perhaps,  in  any  character  but  that  of  Hamlet,  who 
always  connects  with  the  present  the  past  and  what  is  to  come, 
and  mingles  reflection  with  his  immediate  feelings,  however 
deep. 

As  an  instance  of  Kean's  familiar,  and,  if  I  may  be  allowed 
the  term,  domestic  acting,  the  first  scene  in  the  fourth  act  of  his 
Sir  Giles  Overreach  may  be  taken.  His  manner  at  meeting 
Lovell,  and  through  the  conversation  with  him,  the  way  in  which 
he  turns  his  chair  and  leans  upon  it,  were  all  as  easy  and  nat- 
ural as  they  could  have  been  in  real  life  had  Sir  Giles  been  actu- 
ally existing,  and  engaged  at  that  moment  in  conversation  in 
Lovell's  room. 


KEAN'S  ACTING  87 

It  is  in  these  things,  scarcely  less  than  in  the  more  prominent 
parts  of  his  playing,  that  Kean  shows  himself  the  great  actor. 
He  must  always  make  a  deep  impression;  but  to  suppose  the 
world  at  large  capable  of  a  right  estimate  of  his  various  powers 
would  be  forming  a  judgment  against  every-day  proof.  The 
gradual  manner  in  which  the  character  of  his  playing  has  opened 
upon  me  satisfies  me  that  in  acting,  as  in  everything  else,  how- 
ever great  may  be  the  first  effect  of  genius  upon  us,  we  come 
slowly,  and  through  study,  to  a  perception  of  its  minute  beauties 
and  fine  characteristics ;  and  that,  after  all,  the  greater  part  of 
men  seldom  get  beyond  the  first  vague  and  general  impression. 

As  there  must  needs  go  a  modicum  of  fault-finding  along  with 
commendation,  it  may  be  proper  to  remark  that  Kean  plays  his 
hands  too  much  at  times,  and  moves  about  the  dress  over  his 
breast  and  neck  too  frequently  in  his  hurried  and  impatient  pas- 
sages— that  he  does  not  always  adhere  with  sufficient  accuracy 
to  the  received  readings  of  Shakespeare,  and  that  the  effect 
would  be  greater  upon  the  whole  were  he  to  be  more  sparing 
of  sudden  changes  from  violent  voice  and  gesticulation  to  a  low 
conversation  tone  and  subdued  manner. 

His  frequent  use  of  these  in  Sir  Giles  Overreach  is  with  great 
effect,  for  Sir  Giles  is  playing  his  part;  so,  too,  in  Lear,  for 
Lear's  passions  are  gusty  and  shifting ;  but,  in  the  main,  it  is  a 
kind  of  playing  too  marked  and  striking  to  bear  frequent  repe- 
tition, and  had  better  sometimes  be  spared,  where,  considered 
alone,  it  might  be  properly  enough  used  for  the  sake  of  bringing 
it  in  at  some  other  place  with  greater  effect. 

It  is  well  to  speak  of  these  defects,  for  though  the  little  faults 
of  genius,  in  themselves  considered,  but  slightly  affect  those 
who  can  enter  into  its  true  character,  yet  such  persons  are  made 
impatient  at  the  thought  that  an  opportunity  is  given  those  to 
carp  who  know  not  how  to  commend. 

Though  I  have  taken  up  a  good  deal  of  room,  I  must  end 
without  speaking  of  many  things  which  occur  to  me.  Some 
will  be  of  the  opinion  that  I  have  already  said  enough.  Think- 
ing of  Kean  as  I  do,  I  could  not  honestly  have  said  less ;  for  I 
hold  it  to  be  a  low  and  wicked  thing  to  keep  back  from  merit  of 
any  kind  its  due — and,  with  Steele,  that  **  there  is  something 
wonderful  in  the  narrowness  of  those  minds  which  can  be 
pleased,  and  be  barren  of  bounty  to  those  who  please  them." 


88  DANA 

Although  the  self-important,  out  of  self-concern,  give  praise 
sparingly,  and  the  mean  measure  theirs  by  their  likings  or  dis- 
likings  of  a  man,  and  the  good  even  are  often  slow  to  allow  the 
talents  of  the  faulty  their  due,  lest  they  bring  the  evil  into  re- 
pute, yet  it  is  the  wiser  as  well  as  the  honester  course  not  to 
take  away  from  an  excellence  because  it  neighbors  upon  a  fault, 
nor  to  disparage  another  with  a  view  to  our  own  name,  nor  to 
rest  our  character  for  discernment  upon  the  promptings  of  an 
unkind  heart.  Where  God  has  not  feared  to  bestow  great  pow- 
ers we  may  not  fear  giving  them  their  due ;  nor  need  we  be  par- 
simonious of  commendation,  as  if  there  were  but  a  certain  quan- 
tity for  distribution,  and  our  liberality  would  be  to  our  loss ;  nor 
should  we  hold  it  safe  to  detract  from  another's  merit,  as  if  we 
could  always  keep  the  world  blind ;  lest  we  live  to  see  him  whom 
we  disparaged  praised,  and  whom  we  hated  loved. 

Whatever  be  his  failings,  give  every  man  a  full  and  ready 
commendation  for  that  in  which  he  excels ;  it  will  do  good  to 
our  own  hearts,  while  it  cheers  his.  Nor  will  it  bring  our  judg- 
ment into  question  with  the  discerning ;  for  strong  enthusiasm 
for  what  is  great  does  not  argue  such  an  unhappy  want  of  dis- 
crimination as  that  measured  and  cold  approval  which  is  be- 
stowed alike  upon  men  of  mediocrity,  and  upon  those  of  gifted 
minds. 


ESSAY    ON    AMERICAN    POETRY 


BY 


WILLIAM    CULLEN     BRYANT 


WILLIAM   CULLEN   BRYANT 
1794— 1878 

William  Cullen  Bryant  was  born  at  Cummington,  a  small  town  in 
Massachusetts,  in  1794.  His  father  was  a  physician  of  considerable, 
mental  attainments,  and  Bryant's  early  training  under  private  tutors 
was  extensive  and  thorough.  In  1810  he  entered  the  sophomore  class 
of  WilHams  College,  which  he  left  a  year  later  to  devote  himself  to  the 
study  of  law.  From  his  earliest  boyhood  Bryant  was  a  lover  of  nature, 
and  at  fourteen  he  had  written  some  verses  his  father  thought  worth 
publishing.  At  eighteen  he  wrote  "  Thanatopsis,"  the  noblest  poem  yet 
written  in  America,  but  owing  to  his  innate  modesty  it  remained  hidden 
in  his  desk  for  several  years  till  it  was  discovered  by  his  father,  who  sent 
it  to  the  "  North  American  Review,"  in  which  it  was  published  in  181 7. 
The  next  year  "  To  a  Waterfowl  "  was  published  in  the  same  magazine 
three  years  after  it  was  written.  Bryant  also  wrote  at  this  time  a  re- 
view of  a  collection  of  American  poetry  which  appeared  later  in  a  some- 
what changed  form  as  an  "  Essay  on  American  Poetry."  In  this  paper, 
which  is  interesting  to-day  both  on  account  of  its  subject-matter  and 
the  date  of  its  appearance,  Bryant  passed  in  review  all  the  writers  of 
verse  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic  who  had  ventured  into  print  save,  as 
he  expressed  himself,  some  "  whose  passage  to  that  oblivion  toward 
which,  to  the  honor  of  our  country  they  were  hastening,"  he  did  not 
wish  to  interrupt. 

In  1825  Bryant  abandoned  the  practice  of  law,  leaving  Great  Barring- 
ton  for  New  York  to  devote  himself  entirely  to  literary  pursuits.  In 
1826  he  became  connected  with  the  "  Evening  Post,"  of  which  he  con- 
tinued to  be  the  editor  and  principal  proprietor  till  his  death.  While 
struggling  to  secure  a  foothold  in  New  York,  Bryant  contributed  to  the 
magazines  many  of  his  finest  poems.  For  "  The  Death  of  the  Flowers  " 
he  received  a  remuneration  of  two  dollars,  and  was  "  abundantly  satis- 
fied." In  1821,  soon  after  reading  "  The  Ages  "  before  the  Phi  Beta 
Kappa  Society  at  Harvard,  Bryant  published  a  small  volume  contain- 
ing many  of  his  best  poerns.  Ten  years  later  a  second  volume  was  pub- 
lished, containing  about  eighty  additional  poems,  and  others  were  added 
to  subsequent  editions.  In  1863  appeared  "  Thirty  Poems,"  consisting 
wholly  of  later  work.  In  1870  his  translation  of  the  Iliad  appeared,  fol- 
lowed two  years  later  by  his  translation  of  the  Odyssey.  Most  of  Bry- 
ant's energies  were,  however,  of  necessity  directed  to  his  journalistic 
activity,  especially  during  the  storrny  period  of  the  slavery  agitation  of 
secession  and  reconstruction.  His  idea  of  the  importance  of  an  editor's 
mission  was  a  lofty  one,  and  he  made  the  "  Evening  Post "  a  power 
during  the  half  century  that  he  was  identified  with  it.     He  died  in  1878. 

Bryant's  literary  style,  both  in  poetry  and  prose,  is  marked  by  great 
purity  and  elegance.  His  editorials,  written  invariably  in  the  confusion 
of  a  newspaper  of^ce,  were  models  of  English  prose.  In  our  estimate 
of  Bryant  we  must  be  guided  by  the  quality  of  his  work  rather  than 
its  quantity.  As  a  poet  of  nature  he  holds  justly  the  foremost  place 
among  the  poets  of  America. 


90 


ESSAY  ON  AMERICAN   POETRY 

OF  the  poetry  of  the  United  States  ^  different  opinions 
have  been  entertained,  and  prejudice  on  the  one  side 
and  partiaHty  on  the  other  have  equally  prevented  a 
just  and  rational  estimate  of  its  merits.  Abroad  our  literature 
has  fallen  under  unmerited  contumely  from  those  who  were  but 
slenderly  acquainted  with  the  subject  on  which  they  professed 
to  decide ;  and  at  home  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  swagger- 
ing and  pompous  pretensions  of  many  have  done  not  a  little 
to  provoke  and  excuse  the  ridicule  of  foreigners.  Either  of 
these  extremes  exerts  an  injurious  influence  on  the  cause  of 
letters  in  our  country.  To  encourage  exertion  and  embolden 
merit  to  come  forward,  it  is  necessary  that  they  should  be 
acknowledged  and  rewarded.  Few  will  have  the  confidence  to 
solicit  what  is  wantonly  withheld,  or  the  courage  to  tread  a  path 
which  presents  no  prospect  but  the  melancholy  wrecks  of  those 
who  have  gone  before  them.  National  gratitude,  national 
pride — every  high  and  generous  feeling  that  attaches  us  to  the 
land  of  our  birth,  or  that  exalts  our  characters  as  individuals 
— ask  of  us  that  we  should  foster  the  infant  literature  of  our 
country,  and  that  genius  and  industry,  employing  their  efforts 
to  hasten  its  perfection,  should  receive  from  our  hands  that 
celebrity  which  reflects  as  much  honor  on  the  nation  which 
confers  it  as  on  those  to  whom  it  is  extended.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  not  necessary  for  these  purposes — it  is  even  detri- 
mental— to  bestow  on  mediocrity  the  praise  due  to  excellence, 
and  still  more  so  is  the  attempt  to  persuade  ourselves  and  others 
into  an  admiration  of  the  faults  of  favorite  writers.  We  make 
but  a  contemptible  figure  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  set  our- 
selves up  as  objects  of  pity  to  our  posterity,  when  we  affect  to 
rank  the  poets  of  our  own  country  with  those  mighty  masters 
of  song  who  have  flourished  in  Greece,  Italy,  and  Britain.    Such 

*  [This  essay  was  first  published  in  the  "  North   American   Review  "   for  July, 

t8i8.— Editor.] 

91 


92  BRYANT 

extravagant  admiration  may  spring  from  a  praiseworthy  and 
patriotic  motive,  but  it  seems  to  us  that  it  defeats  its  own  object 
of  encouraging  our  literature,  by  seducing  those  who  would 
aspire  to  the  favor  of  the  public  into  an  imitation  of  imperfect 
models,  and  leading  them  to  rely  too  much  on  the  partiality  of 
their  countrymen  to  overlook  their  deficiencies.  Were  our  re- 
wards to  be  bestowed  only  on  what  is  intrinsically  meritorious, 
merit  alone  would  have  any  apology  for  appearing  before  the 
public.  The  poetical  adventurer  should  be  taught  that  it  is  only 
the  productions  of  genius,  taste,  and  diligence  that  can  find  favor 
at  the  bar  of  criticism ;  that  his  writings  are  not  to  be  applauded 
merely  because  they  are  written  by  an  American  and  are  not 
decidedly  bad;  and  that  he  must  produce  some  more  satis- 
factory evidence  of  his  claim  to  celebrity  than  an  extract  from 
the  parish  register.  To  show  him  what  we  expect  of  him,  it 
is  as  necessary  to  point  out  the  faults  of  his  predecessors  as 
to  commend  their  excellences.  He  must  be  taught  as  well 
what  to  avoid  as  what  to  imitate.  This  is  the  only  way  of 
diffusing  and  preserving  a  pure  taste,  both  among  those  who 
read  and  those  who  write,  and,  in  our  opinion,  the  only  way 
of  affording  merit  a  proper  and  effectual  encouragement. 

It  must,  however,  be  allowed  that  the  poetry  of  the  United 
States,  though  it  has  not  reached  any  high  degree  of  perfec- 
tion, is  yet,  perhaps,  better  than  it  could  have  been  expected 
to  be,  considering  that  our  nation  has  scarcely  seen  two  cen- 
turies since  its  founders  erected  their  cabins  on  its  soil,  and 
that  our  citizens  are  just  beginning  to  find  leisure  to  attend  to 
intellectual  refinements,  to  indulge  in  intellectual  luxury,  and 
to  afford  the  means  of  rewarding  intellectual  excellence.  For 
the  first  century  after  the  settlement  of  this  country,  the  few 
quaint  and  unskilful  specimens  of  poetry  which  yet  remain 
to  us  are  looked  upon  merely  as  objects  of  curiosity,  are  pre- 
served only  in  the  cabinet  of  the  antiquary,  and  give  little 
pleasure  if  read  without  reference  to  the  age  and  people  which 
produced  them.  After  this  period  a  purer  taste  began  to  pre- 
vail. The  poems  of  the  Rev.  John  Adams,  written  in  the  early 
part  of  the  eighteenth  century,  which  have  been  considered  as 
no  bad  specimens  of  the  poetry  of  his  time,  are  tolerably  free 
from  the  faults  of  the  generation  that  preceded  him,  and  show 
the  dawnings  of  an  ambition  of  correctness  and  elegance.    The 


AMERICAN   POETRY  93 

poetical  writings  of  Joseph  Green,  Esq.,  who  wrote  about  the 
middle  of  the  same  century,  have  been  admired  for  their  humor 
and  the  playful  ease  of  their  composition. 

But  previous  to  the  contest  which  terminated  in  the  inde- 
pendence of  the  United  States  we  can  hardly  be  said  to  have 
had  any  national  poetry.  Literary  ambition  was  not  then  fre- 
quent amongst  us — there  was  little  motive  for  it,  and  few 
rewards.  We  were  contented  with  considering  ourselves  as 
participating  in  the  literary  fame  of  that  nation  of  which  we 
were  a  part,  and  of  which  many  of  us  were  natives,  and  aspired 
to  no  separate  distinction.  And,  indeed,  we  might  well  lay 
an  equal  claim,  with  those  who  remained  on  the  British  soil, 
to  whatever  glory  the  genius  and  learning,  as  well  as  the 
virtue  and  bravery,  of  other  times  reflected  on  the  British 
name.  These  were  qualities  which  ennobled  our  common  an- 
cestors; and,  though  their  graves  were  not  with  us,  and  we 
were  at  a  distance  from  the  scenes  and  haunts  which  were 
hallowed  by  their  deeds,  their  studies  and  their  contempla- 
tions, yet  we  brought  with  us  and  preserved  all  the  more 
valuable  gifts  which  they  left  to  their  posterity  and  to  man- 
kind— their  illumination,  their  piety,  their  spirit  of  liberty, 
reverence  for  their  memory  and  example,  and  all  the  proud 
tokens  of  a  generous  descent. 

Yet  here  was  no  theatre  for  the  display  of  literary  talent. 
The  worshippers  of  fame  could  find  no  altars  erected  to  that 
divinity  in  America,  and  he  who  would  live  by  his  pen  must 
seek  patronage  in  the  parent  country.  Some  men  of  taste 
and  learning  amongst  us  might  occasionally  amuse  their  leisure 
with  poetical  trifles,  but  a  country  struggling  with  the  diffi- 
culties of  colonization,  and  possessing  no  superfluous  wealth, 
wanted  any  other  class  of  men  rather  than  poets.  Accord- 
ingly, we  find  the  specimens  of  American  poetry  before  this 
period  mostly  desultory  and  occasional — rare  and  delicate  ex- 
otics, cultivated  only  by  the  curious. 

On  our  becoming  an  independent  empire  a  diflferent  spirit 
began  to  manifest  itself,  and  the  general  ambition  to  distin- 
guish ourselves  as  a  nation  was  not  without  its  effect  on  our 
literature.  It  seems  to  us  that  it  is  from  this  time  only  that 
we  can  be  said  to  have  poets  of  our  own,  and  from  this  period 
it  is  that  we  must  date  the  origin  of  American  poetry.    About 


94 


BRYANT 


this  time  flourished  Francis  Hopkinson,  whose  humorous 
ballad,  entitled  "  The  Battle  of  the  Kegs,"  is  in  most  of  our 
memories,  and  some  of  whose  attempts,  though  deficient  in 
vigor,  are  not  inelegant.  The  keen  and  forcible  invectives  of  Dr. 
Church,  which  are  still  recollected  by  his  contemporaries,  re- 
ceived an  additional  edge  and  sharpness  from  the  exasperated 
feelings  of  the  times.  A  writer  in  verse  of  inferior  note  was 
Philip  Freneau,  whose  pen  seems  to  have  been  chiefly  em- 
ployed on  political  subjects,  and  whose  occasional  produc- 
tions, distinguished  by  a  coarse  strength  of  sarcasm,  and 
abounding  with  allusions  to  passing  events,  which  is  perhaps 
their  greatest  merit,  attracted  in  their  time  considerable  notice, 
and,  in  the  year  1786,  were  collected  into  a  volume.  But  the 
influence  of  that  principle  which  awoke  and  animated  the  exer- 
tions of  all  who  participated  in  the  political  enthusiasm  of  that 
time  was  still  more  strongly  exemplified  in  the  Connecticut 
poets — Trumbull,  Dwight,  Barlow,  Humphreys,  and  Hopkins 
— who  began  to  write  about  this  period.  In  all  the  productions 
of  these  authors  there  is  a  pervading  spirit  of  nationality  and 
patriotism,  a  desire  to  reflect  credit  on  the  country  to  which  they 
belonged,  which  seems,  as  much  as  individual  ambition,  to  have 
prompted  their  efforts,  and  which  at  times  gives  a  certain  glow 
and  interest  to  their  manner. 

"  McFingal,"  the  most  popular  of  the  writings  of  the  former 
of  these  poets,  first  appeared  in  the  year  1782.  This  pleasant 
satire  on  the  adherents  of  Britain  in  those  times  may  be  pro- 
nounced a  tolerably  successful  imitation  of  the  great  work  of 
Butler,  though,  like  every  other  imitation  of  that  author,  it 
wants  that  varied  and  inexhaustible  fertility  of  allusion  which 
made  all  subjects  of  thought,  the  lightest  and  most  abstruse 
parts  of  learning — everything  in  the  physical  and  moral  world, 
in  art  or  nature — the  playthings  of  his  wit.  The  work  of  Trum- 
bull cannot  be  much  praised  for  the  purity  of  its  diction.  Yet, 
perhaps  great  scrupulousness  in  this  particular  was  not  con- 
sistent with  the  plan  of  the  author,  and,  to  give  the  scenes  of 
this  poem  their  full  effect,  it  might  have  been  thought  necessary 
to  adopt  the  familiar  dialect  of  the  country  and  the  times.  We 
think  his  "  Progress  of  Dulness  "  a  more  pleasing  poem,  more 
finished  and  more  perfect  in  its  kind,  and,  though  written  in 
the  same  manner,  more  free  from  the  constraint  and  servility 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


95 


of  imitation.  The  graver  poems  of  Trumbull  contain  some 
vigorous  and  animated  declamations. 

Of  Dr.  Dwight  we  would  speak  with  all  the  respect  due  to 
talents,  to  learning,  to  piety,  and  a  long  Hfe  of  virtuous  use- 
fulness, but  we  must  be  excused  from  feeling  any  high  ad- 
miration of  his  poetry.  It  seems  to  us  modelled  upon  a 
manner  altogether  too  artificial  and  mechanical.  There  is 
something  strained,  violent,  and  out  of  nature  in  all  his  at- 
tempts. His  ''  Conquest  of  Canaan  "  will  not  secure  immor- 
taHty  to  its  author.  In  this  work  he  has  been  considered  by 
some  as  by  no  means  happy  in  the  choice  of  his  fable.  How- 
ever this  may  be,  he  has  certainly  failed  to  avail  himself 
of  the  advantages  it  offered  him ;  his  epic  wants  the  creations 
and  colorings  of  an  inventive  and  poetical  fancy — the  charm 
which,  in  the  hands  of  genius,  communicates  an  interest  to 
the  simplest  incidents,  and  something  of  the  illusion  of  reality 
to  the  most  improbable  fictions.  The  versification  is  remark- 
able for  its  unbroken  monotony.  Yet  it  contains  splendid 
passages,  which,  separated  from  the  body  of  the  work,  might 
be  admired,  but  a  few  pages  pall  both  on  the  ear  and  the 
imagination.  It  has  been  urged  in  its  favor  that  the  writer 
was  young.  The  poetry  of  his  maturer  years  does  not,  how- 
ever, seem  to  possess  greater  beauties  or  fewer  faults.  The 
late  Mr.  Dennie  at  one  time  exerted  his  ingenuity  to  render 
this  poem  popular  with  his  countrymen ;  in  the  year  1800  he 
published,  in  the  "  Farmers'  Museum  " — a  paper  printed  at 
Walpole,  of  which  he  was  the  editor — a  series  of  observations 
and  criticisms  on  the  "  Conquest  of  Canaan,"  after  the  man- 
ner of  Addison  in  those  numbers  of  the  "  Spectator  "  which 
made  Milton  a  favorite  with  the  English  people.  But  this 
attempt  did  not  meet  with  success ;  the  work  would  not  sell, 
and  loads  of  copies  yet  cumber  the  shelves  of  the  booksellers. 
In  the  other  poems  of  Dr.  Dwight,  which  are  generally  open 
to  the  same  criticisms,  he  sometimes  endeavors  to  descend  to 
a  more  familiar  style,  and  entertains  his  reader  with  laborious 
attempts  at  wit ;  and  here  he  is  still  unsuccessful.  Parts  of  his 
"  Greenfield  Hill,"  and  that  most  unfortunate  of  his  produc- 
tions, the  "  Triumph  of  Infidelity,"  will  confirm  the  truth  of 
this  remark. 

Barlow,  when  he  began  to  write,  was  a  poet  of  no  incon- 


96  BRYANT 

siderable  promise.  His  "  Hasty  Pudding,"  one  of  his  earliest 
productions,  is  a  good  specimen  of  mock-heroic  poetry,  and 
his  "  Vision  of  Columbus,"  at  the  time  of  its  first  appearance, 
attracted  much  attention,  and  was  hailed  as  an  earnest  of  bet- 
ter things.  It  is  no  small  praise  to  say  that,  when  appointed 
by  the  General  Assembly  of  Churches  in  Connecticut  to  re- 
vise Watts's  **  Version  of  the  Psalms,"  and  to  versify  such  as 
were  omitted  in  that  work,  he  performed  the  task  in  a  man- 
ner which  made  a  near  approach  to  the  simplicity  and  ease 
of  that  poet  who,  according  to  Dr.  Johnson,  "  has  done  better 
than  anybody  else  what  nobody  has  done  well."  In  his  ma- 
turer  years  Barlow  became  ambitious  of  distinguishing  him- 
self and  doing  honor  to  his  country  by  some  more  splendid 
and  important  exertions  of  his  talents,  and,  for  this  purpose, 
projected  a  national  epic,  in  which  was  sung  the  "  Discovery 
of  America,"  the  successful  struggle  of  the  States  in  the  de- 
fence of  their  liberties,  and  the  exalted  prospects  which  were 
opening  before  them.  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  a  design  so 
honorable  and  so  generously  conceived  should  have  failed. 
In  1807  appeared  the  "  Columbiad,"  which  was  his  poem  of 
the  "  Vision  of  Columbus,"  much  enlarged,  and  with  such 
variations  as  the  feelings  and  reflections  of  his  riper  age  and 
judgment  led  him  to  make.  The  "  Columbiad  "  is  not,  in  our 
opinion,  so  pleasing  a  poem  in  its  present  form  as  in  that  in 
which  it  was  originally  written.  The  plan  of  the  work  is  utterly 
destitute  of  interest,  and  that  which  was  at  first  sufficiently 
wearisome  has  become  doubly  so  by  being  drawn  out  to  its 
present  length.  Nor  are  the  additions  of  much  value,  on 
account  of  the  taste  in  which  they  are  composed.  Barlow,  in 
his  later  poetry,  attempted  to  invigorate  his  style,  but,  instead 
of  drawing  strength  and  salubrity  from  the  pure  wells  of 
ancient  English,  he  corrupted  and  debased  it  with  foreign  in- 
fusions. The  imposing  but  unchaste  glitter  which  distin- 
guished the  manner  of  Darwin  and  his  imitators  appears  like- 
wise to  have  taken  strong  hold  on  his  fancy,  and  he  has  not 
scrupled  to  bestow  on  his  poem  much  of  this  meretricious 
decoration.  But,  notwithstanding  the  bad  taste  in  which  his 
principal  work  is  composed,  notwithstanding  he  cannot  be 
said  to  write  with  much  pathos  or  many  of  the  native  felicities 
of  fancy,  there  is  yet  enough  in  the  poetry  of  Mr.  Barlow  to 


AMERICAN   POETRY  97 

prove  that,  had  he  fixed  his  eye  on  purer  models,  he  might 
have  excelled,  not  indeed  in  epic  or  narrative  poetry  nor  in 
the  delineation  of  passion  and  feeling,  but  in  that  calm,  lofty, 
sustained  style  which  suits  best  with  topics  of  morality  and 
philosophy,  and  for  which  the  vigor  and  spirit  of  his  natural 
manner,  whenever  he  permits  it  to  appear,  show  him  to  have 
been  well  qualified. 

Humphreys  was  a  poet  of  humbler  pretensions.  His  writ- 
ings, which  were  first  collected  in  1790,  are  composed  in  better 
taste  than  those  of  the  two  last,  and  if  he  has  less  genius,  he 
has  likewise  fewer  faults.  Some  of  his  lighter  pieces  are  suffi- 
ciently pretty.  He  is  most  happy  when  he  aims  at  nothing 
beyond  an  elegant  mediocrity,  and,  to  do  him  justice,  this  is 
generally  the  extent  of  his  ambition.  On  the  whole,  he  may 
be  considered  as  sustaining  a  respectable  rank  among  the  poets 
of  our  country. 

A  writer  of  a  different  cast  from  those  we  have  mentioned, 
and  distinguished  by  a  singular  boldness  of  imagination  as 
well  as  great  humor,  was  Dr.  Lemuel  Hopkins,  who,  in  1786 
and  the  year  following,  in  conjunction  with  Trumbull,  Bar- 
low, and  Humphreys,  and  other  wits  of  that  time,  wrote  the 
''  Anarchiad,"  a  satire  on  a  plan  similar  to  that  of  the  "  Rol- 
liad,"  which  appeared  in  the  "  New  Haven  Gazette  "  of  those 
^ears,  and  of  which  the  mildest  parts  are  attributed  to  him. 
He  was  likewise  author  of  the  "  Speech  of  Hesper,"  and  some 
smaller  poems,  which  have  been  praised  for  their  wit.  There 
is  a  coarseness,  and  want  of  polish  in  his  style,  and  his  imagina- 
tion, daring  and  original,  but  unrestrained  by  a  correct  judg- 
ment, often  wanders  into  absurdities  and  extravagances.  Still 
if  he  had  all  the  madness,  he  must  be  allowed  to  have  pos- 
sessed some  of  the  inspiration  of  poetry. 

One  material  error  of  taste  pervades  the  graver  productions 
of  these  authors,  into  which  it  would  seem  they  were  led  by 
copying  certain  of  the  poets  of  England,  who  flourished  near 
the  period  in  which  they  began  to  write.  It  was  their  highest 
ambition  to  attain  a  certain  lofty,  measured,  declamatory  man- 
ner— an  artificial  elevation  of  style,  from  which  it  is  impossible 
to  rise  or  descend  without  abruptness  and  violence,  and  which 
allows  just  as  much  play  and  freedom  to  the  faculties  of  the 
writer  as  a  pair  of  stilts  allows  the  body.  The  imagination  is 
7 


98  BRYANT 

confined  to  one  trodden  circle,  doomed  to  the  chains  of  a  per- 
petual mannerism,  and  condemned  to  tinkle  the  same  eternal 
tune,  with  its  fetters.  Their  versification,  though  not  equally 
exceptionable  in  all,  is  formed  upon  the  same  stately  model  of 
balanced  and  wearisome  regularity.  Another  fault,  which  arises 
naturally  enough  out  of  the  peculiar  style  which  we  have  im- 
puted to  these  poets,  is  the  want  of  pathos  and  feeling  in  their 
writings;  the  heart  is  rarely  addressed,  and  never  with  much 
power  or  success.  Amidst  this  coldness  of  manner,  sameness 
of  imagery,  and  monotony  of  versification,  the  reader  lays 
down  his  book,  dazzled  and  fatigued. 

In  1800  appeared  the  poems  of  William  Clifton,  who  fell, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-seven,  a  victim  to  that  scourge  of  our 
climate  which  ceases  not  to  waste  when  other  diseases  are 
sated — the  pulmonary  consumption.  There  is  none  of  our 
American  poetry  on  which  we  dwell  with  more  pleasure,  min- 
gled, indeed,  with  regret  at  the  untimely  fate  of  the  writer, 
than  these  charming  remains.  Amidst  many  of  the  immature 
effusions  of  his  greener  years,  and  unfinished  productions 
which  were  never  meant  to  meet  the  eye  of  the  world,  there 
are  to  be  found  specimens  of  poetry,  not  only  more  delicate, 
classical,  and  polished,  but  more  varied  in  imagery,  and  pos- 
sessing more  of  that  flexibility  of  style,  of  the  want  of  which 
in  others  we  have  complained,  and  more  faithful  to  nature 
and  the  feelings,  than  it  has  often  been  our  lot  to  meet  with 
in  the  works  of  our  native  poets.  In  his  later  and  more  fin- 
ished productions  his  diction  is  refined  to  an  unusual  degree 
of  purity,  and  through  this  lucid  medium  the  creations  of  his 
elegant  fancy  appear,  with  nothing  to  obscure  their  loveliness. 

The  posthumous  works  of  St.  John  Honey  wood,  Esq.,  were 
published  in  the  year  1801.  These  modest  remains,  the  im- 
perfect but  vigorous  productions  of  no  common  mind,  have 
not  been  noticed  as  they  deserved.  They  contain  many  pol- 
ished and  nervous  lines. 

We  should  not  expect  to  be  easily  pardoned  were  we  to 
pass  by  the  writings  of  a  poet  who  enjoyed,  during  his  life- 
time, so  extensive  a  popularity  as  the  late  Mr.  Paine.^  The 
first  glow  of  admiration,  which  the  splendid  errors  of  his  man- 

2  [Robert   Treat    Paine,    an    American  Treat   Paine,  the  statesman  and    signer 

poet  of  great  promise^  whose  collected  of  the    Declaration   of   Independence.— 

works  were  published  in  1812,  is  here  re-  Editor.] 
ferred  to.     He  was  the  son  of   Robert 


AMERICAN   POETRY 


99 


ner  excited  in  the  public,  is  now  over,  and  we  can  calmly  esti- 
mate his  merits  and  defects.  He  must  be  allowed  to  have 
possessed  an  active  and  fertile  fancy.  Even  in  the  misty  ob- 
scurity which  often  shrouds  his  conceptions,  not  only  from 
the  understanding  of  the  reader,  but,  it  would  seem,  from 
that  of  the  writer  himself,  there  sometimes  break  out  glimpses 
of  greatness  and  majesty.  Yet  with  a  force  and  exuberance 
of  imagination  which,  if  soberly  directed,  might  have  gained 
him  the  praise  of  magnificence,  he  is  perpetually  wandering 
in  search  of  conceits  and  extravagances.  He  is  ambitious  of 
the  epigrammatic  style,  and  often  bewilders  himself  with  at- 
tempts to  express  pointedly  what  he  does  not  conceive  clearly. 
More  instances  of  the  false  sublime  might,  perhaps,  be  selected 
from  the  writings  of  this  poet  than  from  those  of  any  other 
of  equal  talents  who  Hved  in  the  same  period.  The  brilliancy 
of  Paine's  poetry  is  like  the  brilliancy  of  frost-work — cold  and 
fantastic.  Who  can  point  out  the  passage  in  his  works  in 
which  he  speaks  to  the  heart  in  its  own  language?  He  was 
a  fine  but  misguided  genius. 

With  respect  to  the  style  of  poetry  prevailing  at  the  present 
day  in  our  country,  we  apprehend  that  it  will  be  found,  in  too 
many  instances,  tinged  with  a  sickly  and  affected  imitation  of 
the  peculiar  manner  of  some  of  the  late  popular  poets  of  Eng- 
land. We  speak  not  of  a  disposition  to  emulate  whatever  is 
beautiful  and  excellent  in  their  writings,  still  less  would  we 
be  understood  as  intending  to  censure  that  sort  of  imitation 
which,  exploring  all  the  treasures  of  English  poetry,  culls  from 
all  a  diction  that  shall  form  a  natural  and  becoming  dress  for 
the  conceptions  of  the  writer — this  is  a  course  of  preparation 
which  everyone  ought  to  go  through  before  he  appears  be- 
fore the  public — but  we  desire  to  set  a  mark  on  that  servile 
habit  of  copying  which  adopts  the  vocabulary  of  some  favorite 
author,  and  apes  the  fashion  of  his  sentences,  and  cramps  and 
forces  the  ideas  into  a  shape  which  they  would  not  naturally 
have  taken,  and  of  which  the  only  recommendation  is,  not 
that  it  is  most  elegant  or  most  striking,  but  that  it  bears  some 
resemblance  to  the  manner  of  him  who  is  proposed  as  a  model. 
This  way  of  writing  has  an  air  of  poverty  and  meanness ;  it 
seems  to  indicate  a  paucity  of  reading  as  well  as  a  perversion 
of  taste ;  it  might  almost  lead  us  to  suspect  that  the  writer  had 


loo  BRYANT 

but  one  or  two  examples  of  poetical  composition  in  his  hands 
and  was  afraid  of  expressing  himself,  except  according  to  some 
formula  which  they  might  contain ;  and  it  ever  has  been,  and 
ever  will  be,  the  resort  of  those  who  are  sensible  that  their 
works  need  some  factitious  recommendation  to  give  them  even 
a  temporary  popularity. 

We  have  now  given  a  brief  summary  of  what  we  conceive 
to  be  the  characteristic  merits  and  defects  of  our  most  celebrated 
American  poets.  Some  names,  of  which  we  are  not  at  present 
aware,  equally  deserving  of  notice  with  those  whom  we  have 
mentioned,  may  have  been  omitted ;  some  we  have  passed  over 
because  we  would  not  willingly  disturb  their  passage  to  that 
oblivion  toward  which,  to  the  honor  of  our  country,  they  are 
hastening ;  and  some  elegant  productions  of  later  date  we  have 
not  commented  on,  because  we  were  unwilling  to  tire  our  readers 
with  a  discussion  which  they  may  think  already  exhausted. 

On  the  whole,  there  seems  to  be  more  good  taste  among 
those  who  read  than  those  who  write  poetry  in  our  country. 
With  respect  to  the  poets  whom  we  have  enumerated,  and 
whose  merits  we  have  discussed,  we  think  the  judgment  pro- 
nounced on  their  works  by  the  public  will  be  found,  generally 
speaking,  just.  They  hold  that  station  in  our  literature  to 
which  they  are  entitled,  and  could  heardly  be  admired  more 
than  they  are  without  danger  to  the  taste  of  the  nation.  We 
know  of  no  instance  in  which  great  poetical  merit  has  come 
forward,  and,  finding  its  claims  unallowed,  been  obliged  to 
retire  to  the  shade  from  which  it  emerged.  Whenever  splen- 
did talents  of  this  description  shall  appear,  we  believe  that 
there  will  be  found  a  disposition  to  encourage  and  reward 
them.  The  fondness  for  literature  is  fast  increasing,  and,  if 
this  were  not  the  case,  the  patrons  of  literature  have  multi- 
plied, of  course,  and  will  continue  to  multiply  with  the  mere 
growth  of  our  population.  The  popular  English  works  of  the 
day  are  often  reprinted  in  our  country,  they  are  dispersed  all 
over  the  Union ;  they  are  found  in  everybody's  hands,  they  are 
made  the  subject  of  everybody's  conversation.  What  should 
hinder  our  native  works,  if  equal  in  merit,  from  meeting  an 
equally  favorable  reception? 


CHOICE   EXAMPLES   OF   CLASSIC  SCULPTURE. 


APOLLO  MUSAGETES. 

f  Leading  the  Muses.) 

Photo-engraving  from  the  statue  in  the  Vatican  Gallerv  at  Rome. 

The  statue  represents  the  god  as  crowned  with  laurel  and  wearing  the  long 
Ionian  robe  of  a  harper.  It  is  a  copy  of  an  original  work  by  Scopas,  420-350  B.C. 
This  copy  was  set  up  with  figures  of  the  nine  Muses  in  the  temple  of  Apollo  which 
the  Emperor  Augustus  dedicated  on  the  Palatine  Hill,  27  B.C.  It  was  found  in  the 
gardens  of  Cassius  at  Tivoli  in  1774,  and  placed  as  one  of  the  most  precious  relics 
of  antique  sculpture  among  the  treasures  of  the  Vatican. 


•  •»        •< 


SIR    WALTER    SCOTT 


BY 


WILLIAM    HICKLING    PRESCOTT 


WILLIAM  HICKLING  PRESCOTT 

1796— 1859 

Wi'liam  Hickling  Prescott  was  born  in  Salem,  Massachusetts,  in  1796. 
His  tather  vvaj;  a  prominent  and  wealthy  lawyer  who  almost  idolized 
his  handsome  and  talented  son.  He  entered  Harvard  College  in  181 1, 
intending  to  study  law  on  his  graduation,  but  during  his  junior  year  met 
with  an  accident  to  one  of  his  eyes  that  changed  all  his  life  plans. 
Oculists  both  in  this  country  and  abroad  were  consulted,  but  in  spite  of 
expert  treatment  he  became  practically  blind.  Under  these  depressing 
circumstances  he  took  up  the  study  of  literature  with  a  view  to  making 
it  his  life  work.  He  began  a  year  of  study,  with  the  aid  of  a  reader 
and  an  amanuensis,  desiring  in  this  way  to  perfect  himself  in  style  and 
in  general  culture.  Then,  in  1826,  he  decided  to  take  up  the  "  Reign 
of  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  "  as  his  first  subject  of  historical  study  and 
investigation.  After  three  years  and  a  half  of  preparation  he  began  to 
write,  but  even  then,  so  painstaking  and  thorough  was  his  work  that 
at  the  end  of  sixteen  months  only  three  hundred  pages  were  completed. 
Ten  years  passed  before  the  volumes  were  issued  from  the  press.  To 
the  astonishment  of  author  and  publisher  alike,  copies  could  not  be 
printed  fast  enough  to  meet  the  demand,  and  Prescott  found  himself 
suddenly  famous.  He  next  devoted  six  years  to  his  "  History  of  the 
Conquest  of  Mexico,"  which  was  brought  out  in  1843.  Four  years  later 
"  The  Conquest  of  Peru  "  was  published,  and  the  "  History  of  Philip 
II  "  begun.  The  first  two  volumes  of  the  latter  work  came  from  the 
press  in  1855,  and  a  third  volume  was  issued  in  1858.  Prescott,  how- 
ever, did  not  live  to  complete  this  volume.  He  died  at  his  residence 
on  Beacon  Street  in  Boston  in  1859. 

Prescott  has  a  twofold  interest  for  the  American  student.  Not  only 
was  he  a  great  historian,  but  his  writings  have  a  distinct  literary  as  well 
as  historical  value.  Indeed,  so  brilliant  is  his  literary  method  that  some 
critics  have  questioned  his  historical  accuracy,  but  later  scholarship  has 
borne  him  out  in  this  respect,  except,  perhaps,  in  passages  of  "  Mexico  " 
and  "  Peru,"  where  his  Spanish  authorities  have  since  been  found  un- 
trustworthy. Aside  from  his  historical  writings  we  have  comparatively 
little  from  Prescott's  pen.  A  number  of  articles  were  published  in  the 
"  North  American  Review,"  chiefly  historical  and  biographical,  while  a 
few  are  on  purely  literary  topics.  His  essays  on  Italian  poetry  give 
proof  of  Prescott's  literary  culture  and  acumen  as  a  critic,  as  does  his 
admirable  essay  on  "  Sir  Walter  Scott."  These,  however,  stand  almost 
alone,  and  it  is  on  his  writings  as  an  historian  that  Prescott's  fame  rests. 
That  his  reputation  will  be  an  enduring  one  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
His  works  still  remain  an  authority  and  are  as  widely  read  as  ever; 
they  have  lost  none  of  their  fascination,  their  vividness  and  power,  in 
spite  of  the  somewhat  changed  literary  taste  and  the  method  of  scien- 
tific investigation  of  our  day. 

Prescott's  literary  style,  as  Hallam  declared,  "  appears  to  be  nearly 
perfect."  It  is  clear,  vivid,  full  of  movement,  and  abounds  in  dramatic 
passages  of  absorbing  interest. 


102 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT 

THERE  is  no  kind  of  writing  which  has  truth  and  instruc- 
tion for  its  main  object  so  interesting  and  popular,  on 
the  whole,  as  biography.  History,  in  its  larger  sense, 
has  to  deal  with  masses,  which,  while  they  divide  the  attention 
by  the  dazzling  variety  of  objects,  from  their  very  generality 
are  scarcely  capable  of  touching  the  heart.  The  great  objects 
on  which  it  is  employed  have  little  relation  to  the  daily  occupa- 
tions with  which  the  reader  is  most  intimate.  A  nation,  like 
a  corporation,  seems  to  have  no  soul ;  and  its  checkered  vicis- 
situdes may  be  contemplated  rather  with  curiosity  for  the  les- 
sons they  convey  than  with  personal  sympathy.  How  different 
are  the  feelings  excited  by  the  fortunes  of  an  individual — one 
of  the  mighty  mass,  who  in  the  page  of  history  is  swept  along 
the  current,  unnoticed  and  unknown!  Instead  of  a  mere  ab- 
straction, at  once  we  see  a  being  like  ourselves,  ''  fed  with  the 
same  food,  hurt  with  the  same  weapons,  subject  to  the  same 
diseases,  healed  by  the  same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by 
the  same  winter  and  summer  "  as  we  are.  We  place  ourselves 
in  his  position,  and  see  the  passing  current  of  events  with  the 
same  eyes.  We  become  a  party  to  all  his  little  schemes,  share 
in  his  triumphs,  or  mourn  with  him  in  the  disappointment  of 
defeat.  His  friends  become  our  friends.  We  learn  to  take  an 
interest  in  their  characters,  from  their  relation  to  him.  As 
they  pass  away  from  the  stage,  one  after  another,  and  as  the 
clouds  of  misfortune,  perhaps,  or  of  disease,  settle  around  the 
evening  of  his  own  day,  we  feel  the  same  sadness  that  steals 
over  us  on  a  retrospect  of  earlier  and  happier  hours.  And, 
when  at  last  we  have  followed  him  to  the  tomb,  we  close  the 
volume,  and  feel  that  we  have  turned  over  another  chapter  in 
the  history  of  life. 

On  the  same  principles,  probably,  we  are  more  moved  by  the 
exhibition  of  those  characters  whose  days  have  been  passed  in 

10^ 


I04  PRESCOTT 

the  ordinary  routine  of  domestic  and  social  life  than  by  those 
most  intimately  connected  with  the  great  public  events  of  their 
age.  What,  indeed,  is  the  history  of  such  men  but  that  of  the 
times  ?  The  life  of  Wellington,  or  of  Bonaparte,  is  the  story  of 
the  wars  and  revolutions  of  Europe.  But  that  of  Cowper,  glid- 
ing away  in  the  seclusion  of  rural  solitude,  reflects  all  those 
domestic  joys,  and,  alas !  more  than  the  sorrows,  which  gather 
round  every  man's  fireside  and  his  heart.  In  this  way  the  story 
of  the  humblest  individual,  faithfully  recorded,  becomes  an 
object  of  lively  interest.  How  much  is  that  interest  increased 
in  the  case  of  a  man  like  Scott,  who,  from  his  own  fireside,  has 
sent  forth  a  voice  to  cheer  and  delight  millions  of  his  fellow 
men;  whose  life,  indeed,  passed  within  the  narrow  circle  of 
his  own  village,  as  it  were,  but  who,  nevertheless,  has  called  up 
more  shapes  and  fantasies  within  that  magic  circle,  acted  more 
extraordinary  parts,  and  aflforded  more  marvels  for  the  imag- 
ination to  feed  on,  than  can  be  furnished  by  the  most  nimble- 
footed,  nimble-tongued  traveller,  from  Marco  Polo  down  to 
Mrs.  Trollope,  and  that  literary  Sindbad,  Captain  Hall ! 

Fortunate  as  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  in  his  life,  it  is  not  the 
least  of  his  good  fortunes  that  he  left  the  task  of  recording  it 
to  one  so  competent  as  Mr.  Lockhart ;  ^  who,  to  a  familiarity 
with  the  person  and  habits  of  his  illustrious  subject,  unites  such 
entire  sympathy  with  his  pursuits,  and  such  fine  tact  and  dis- 
crimination in  arranging  the  materials  for  their  illustration. 
We  have  seen  it  objected  that  the  biographer  has  somewhat 
transcended  his  lawful  limits  in  occasionally  exposing  what  a 
nice  tenderness  for  the  reputation  of  Scott  should  have  led 
him  to  conceal.  But,  on  reflection,  we  are  not  inclined  to  adopt 
these  views.  It  is,  indeed,  difficult  to  prescribe  any  precise 
rule  by  which  the  biographer  should  be  guided  in  exhibiting 
the  peculiarities,  and  still  more  the  defects,  of  his  subject.  He 
should,  doubtless,  be  slow  to  draw  from  obscurity  those  matters 
which  are  of  a  strictly  personal  and  private  nature,  particularly 
when  they  have  no  material  bearing  on  the  character  of  the 
individual.  But  whatever  the  latter  has  done,  said,  or  written 
to  others,  can  rarely  be  made  to  come  within  this  rule.  A 
swell  of  panegyric,  where  everything  is  in  broad  sunshine,  with- 
out the  relief  of  a  shadow  to  contrast  it,  is  out  of  nature,  and 

1 "  Memoirs  of  the  Life  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  Bart.,"  by  J.  G.  Lockhart. 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  105 

must  bring  discredit  on  the  whole.  Nor  is  it  much  better, 
when  a  sort  of  twiHght  mystification  is  spread  over  a  man's 
actions,  until,  as  in  the  case  of  all  biographies  of  Cowper  previ- 
ous to  that  of  Southey,  we  are  completely  bewildered  respect- 
ing the  real  motives  of  conduct.  If  ever  there  was  a  character 
above  the  necessity  of  any  management  of  this  sort,  it  was 
Scott's ;  and  we  cannot  but  think  that  the  frank  exposition  of 
the  minor  blemishes  which  sully  it,  by  securing  the  confidence 
of  the  reader  in  the  general  fidelity  of  the  portraiture,  and  thus 
disposing  him  to  receive,  without  distrust,  those  favorable 
statements  in  his  history  which  might  seem  incredible,  as  they 
certainly  are  unprecedented,  is,  on  the  whole,  advantageous  to 
his  reputation.  As  regards  the  moral  effect  on  the  reader,  we 
may  apply  Scott's  own  argument  for  not  always  recompensing 
suffering  virtue,  at  the  close  of  his  fictions,  with  temporal  pros- 
perity, that  such  an  arrangement  would  convey  no  moral  to 
the  heart  whatever,  since  a  glance  at  the  great  picture  of  life 
would  show  that  virtue  is  not  always  thus  rewarded. 

In  regard  to  the  literary  execution  of  Mr.  Lockhart's  work, 
the  public  voice  has  long  since  pronounced  on  it.  A  prying 
criticism  may,  indeed,  discern  a  few  of  those  contraband  epi- 
thets, and  slipshod  sentences,  more  excusable  in  young  "  Peter's 
Letters  to  his  Kinsfolk,"  where,  indeed,  they  are  thickly  sown, 
than  in  the  production  of  a  grave  Aristarch  of  British  criticism. 
But  this  is  small  game  where  every  reader  of  the  least  taste  and 
sensibility  must  find  so  much  to  applaud.  It  is  enough  to  say 
that,  in  passing  from  the  letters  of  Scott,  with  which  the  work 
is  besprinkled,  to  the  text  of  the  biographer,  we  find  none  of 
those  chilling  transitions  which  occur  on  the  like  occasions  in 
more  bungling  productions ;  as,  for  example,  in  that  recent  one, 
in  which  the  unfortunate  Hannah  More  is  done  to  death  by 
her  friend  Roberts.  On  the  contrary,  we  are  sensible  only  to  a 
new  variety  of  beauty  in  the  style  of  composition.  The  corre- 
spondence is  illumined  by  all  that  is  needed  to  make  it  intel- 
ligible to  a  stranger,  and  selected  with  such  discernment  as  to 
produce  the  clearest  impression  of  the  character  of  its  author. 
The  mass  of  interesting  details  is  conveyed  in  language  richly 
colored  with  poetic  sentiment,  and  at  the  same  time  without  a 
tinge  of  that  mysticism  which,  as  Scott  himself  truly  remarked, 
"  will  never  do  for  a  writer  of  fiction,  no,  nor  of  history,  nor 


io6  PRESCOTT 

moral  essays,  nor  sermons " ;  but  which,  nevertheless,  finds 
more  or  less  favor  in  our  own  community,  at  the  present  day, 
in  each  and  all  of  these. 

The  work  ^  from  which  the  last  remark  of  Sir  Walter's  was 
borrowed,  is  a  series  of  notices  originally  published  in  "  Fraser's 
Magazine,"  but  now  collected,  with  considerable  additions,  into 
a  separate  volume.  Its  author,  Mr.  Robert  Pierce  Gillies,  is 
a  gentleman  of  the  Scotch  bar,  favorably  known  by  translations 
from  the  German.  The  work  conveys  a  lively  report  of  several 
scenes  and  events  which,  before  the  appearance  of  Lockhart's 
book,  were  of  more  interest  and  importance  than  they  can  now 
be,  lost  as  they  are  in  the  flood  of  light  which  is  poured  on  us 
from  that  source.  In  the  absence  of  the  sixth  and  last  volume, 
however,  Mr.  Gillies  may  help  us  to  a  few  particulars  respect- 
ing the  closing  years  of  Sir  Walter's  life  that  may  have  some 
novelty — we  know  not  how  much  to  be  relied  on — for  the 
reader.  In  the  present  notice  of  a  work  so  familiar  to  most 
persons  we  shall  confine  ourselves  to  some  of  those  circum- 
stances which  contributed  to  form,  or  have  an  obvious  con- 
nection with,  his  literary  character. 

Walter  Scott  was  born  at  Edinburgh,  August  15,  1771.  The 
character  of  his  father,  a  respectable  member  of  that  class  of 
attorneys  who  in  Scotland  are  called  Writers  to  the  Signet,  is 
best  conveyed  to  the  reader  by  saying  that  he  sat  for  the  por- 
trait of  Mr.  Saunders  Fairford,  in  "  Redgauntlet."  Flis  mother 
was  a  woman  of  taste  and  imagination,  and  had  an  obvious  in- 
fluence in  guiding  those  of  her  son.  His  ancestors,  by  both 
father's  and  mother's  side,  were  of  "  gentle  blood  " — a  position 
which,  placed  between  the  highest  and  the  lower  ranks  in  so- 
ciety, was  extremely  favorable,  as  affording  facilities  for  com- 
munication with  both.  A  lameness  in  his  infancy — a  most 
fortunate  lameness  for  the  world,  if,  as  Scott  says,  it  spoiled  a 
soldier — and  a  delicate  constitution  made  it  expedient  to  try 
the  efficacy  of  country  air  and  diet ;  and  he  was  placed  under 
the  roof  of  his  paternal  grandfather  at  Sandy-Knowe,  a  few 
miles  distant  from  the  capital.  Here  his  days  were  passed  in 
the  open  fields,  *'  with  no  other  fellowship,"  as  he  says,  "  than 
that  of  the  sheep  and  lambs  " ;  and  here,  in  the  lap  of  nature — 
"  Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child," 
a  "  Recollections  of  Sir  Walter  Scott."  by  R.  P.  Gillies. 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  107 

his  infant  vision  was  greeted  with  those  rude,  romantic  scenes 
which  his  own  verses  have  since  hallowed  for  the  pilgrims 
from  every  clime.  In  the  long  evenings,  his  imagination,  as  he 
grew  older,  was  warmed  by  traditionary  legends  of  border 
heroism  and  adventure,  repeated  by  the  aged  relative  who  had 
herself  witnessed  the  last  gleams  of  border  chivalry.  His 
memory  was  one  of  the  first  powers  of  his  mind  which  ex- 
hibited an  extraordinary  development.  One  of  the  longest  of 
these  old  ballads,  in  particular,  stuck  so  close  to  it,  and  he  re- 
peated it  with  such  stentorian  vociferation,  as  to  draw  from 
the  minister  of  a  neighboring  kirk  the  testy  exclamation,  "  One 
may  as  well  speak  in  the  mouth  of  a  cannon  as  where  that 
child  is." 

On  his  removal  to  Edinburgh,  in  his  eighth  year,  he  was 
subjected  to  different  influences.  His  worthy  father  was  a 
severe  martinet  in  all  the  forms  of  his  profession,  and  it  may 
be  added,  indeed,  of  his  religion,  which  he  contrived  to  make 
somewhat  burdensome  to  his  more  volatile  son.  The  tutor  was 
still  more  strict  in  his  religious  sentiments,  and  the  lightest 
literary  divertissement  in  which  either  of  them  indulged  was 
such  as  could  be  gleaned  from  the  time-honored  folios  of  Arch- 
bishop Spottiswoode,  or  worthy  Robert  Wodrow.  Even  here, 
however,  Scott's  young  mind  contrived  to  gather  materials  and 
impulses  for  future  action.  In  his  long  arguments  with  Master 
Mitchell  he  became  steeped  in  the  history  of  the  Covenanters  and 
the  persecuted  Church  of  Scotland,  while  he  was  still  more 
rooted  in  his  own  Jacobite  notions,  early  instilled  into  his  mind 
by  the  tales  of  his  relatives  of  Sandy-Knowe,  whose  own  family 
had  been  out  in  the  "  affair  of  forty-five."  Amid  the  profes- 
sional and  polemical  worthies  of  his  father's  library,  Scott  de- 
tected a  copy  of  Shakespeare ;  and  he  relates  with  what  gout 
he  used  to  creep  out  of  his  bed,  where  he  had  been  safely  de- 
posited for  the  night,  and,  by  the  light  of  the  fire,  in  puris 
naturalihus,  as  it  were,  pore  over  the  pages  of  the  great  magi- 
cian, and  study  those  mighty  spells  by  which  he  gave  to  airy 
fantasies  the  forms  and  substance  of  humanity.  Scott  dis- 
tinctly recollected  the  time  and  the  spot  where  he  first  opened 
a  volume  of  Percy's  "  Reliques  of  English  Poetry";  a  work 
which  may  have  suggested  to  him  the  plan  and  the  purpose  of 
the  "  Border  Minstrelsy."    Every  day's  experience  shows  us 


io8  PRESCOTT 

how  much  more  actively  the  business  of  education  goes  on  out 
of  school  than  in  it.  And  Scott's  history  shows  equally  that 
genius,  whatever  obstacles  may  be  thrown  in  its  way  in  one 
direction,  will  find  room  for  its  expansion  in  another;  as  the 
young  tree  sends  forth  its  shoots  most  prolific  in  that  quarter 
where  the  sunshine  is  permitted  to  fall  on  it. 

At  the  high  school,  in  which  he  was  placed  by  his  father  at 
an  early  period,  he  seems  not  to  have  been  particularly  dis- 
tinguished in  the  regular  course  of  studies.  His  voracious  ap- 
petite for  books,  however,  of  a  certain  cast,  as  romances,  chival- 
rous tales,  and  worm-eaten  chronicles  scarcely  less  chivalrous, 
and  his  wonderful  memory  for  such  reading  as  struck  his  fancy, 
soon  made  him  regarded  by  his  fellows  as  a  phenomenon  of 
black-letter  scholarship,  which  in  process  of  time  achieved  for 
him  the  cognomen  of  that  redoubtable  schoolman,  Duns  Scotus. 
He  now  also  gave  evidence  of  his  powers  of  creation  as  well  as 
of  acquisition.  He  became  noted  for  his  own  stories,  generally 
bordering  on  the  marvellous,  with  a  plentiful  seasoning  of 
knight-errantry,  which  suited  his  bold  and  chivalrous  temper. 
"  Slink  over  beside  me,  Jamie,"  he  would  whisper  to  his  school- 
fellow Ballantyne,  "  and  I'll  tell  you  a  story."  Jamie  was, 
indeed,  destined  to  sit  beside  him  during  the  greater  part  of 
his  life. 

The  same  tastes  and  talents  continued  to  display  themselves 
more  strongly  with  increasing  years.  Having  beaten  pretty 
thoroughly  the  ground  of  romantic  and  legendary  lore,  at  least 
so  far  as  the  English  libraries  to  which  he  had  access  would 
permit,  he  next  endeavored,  while  at  the  university,  to  which  he 
had  been  transferred  from  the  high  school,  to  pursue  the  same 
subject  in  the  Continental  languages.  Many  were  the  strolls 
which  he  took  in  the  neighborhood,  especially  to  Arthur's  Seat 
and  Salisbury  Crags,  where,  perched  on  some  almost  inacces- 
sible eyrie,  he  might  be  seen  conning  over  his  Ariosto  or  Cer- 
vantes, or  some  other  bard  of  romance,  with  some  favorite  com- 
panion of  his  studies,  or  pouring  into  the  ears  of  the  latter  his 
own  boyish  legends,  glowing  with 

"...     achievements  high. 
And  circumstance  of  chivalry." 

A  critical  knowledge  of  these  languages  he  seems  not  to  have 
obtained;    and,  even  in  the  French,  made  but  an  indifferent 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  109 

figure  in  conversation.  An  accurate  acquaintance  with  the  pro- 
nunciation and  prosody  of  a  foreign  tongue  is  undoubtedly  a 
desirable  accomplishment.  But  it  is,  after  all,  a  mere  accom- 
plishment, subordinate  to  the  great  purposes  for  which  a  lan- 
guage is  to  be  learned.  Scott  did  not,  as  is  too  often  the  case, 
mistake  the  shell  for  the  kernel.  He  looked  on  language  only 
as  the  key  to  unlock  the  foreign  stores  of  wisdom,  the  pearls  of 
inestimable  price,  wherever  found,  with  which  to  enrich  his  na- 
tive literature. 

After  a  brief  residence  at  the  university  he  was  regularly 
indented  as  an  apprentice  to  his  father,  in  1786.  One  can  hardly 
imagine  a  situation  less  congenial  with  the  ardent,  effervescing 
spirit  of  a  poetic  fancy;  fettered  down  to  a  daily  routine  of 
drudgery,  scarcely  above  that  of  a  mere  scrivener.  It  proved  a 
useful  school  of  discipline  to  him,  however.  It  formed  early 
habits  of  method,  punctuality,  and  laborious  industry ;  business 
habits,  in  short,  most  adverse  to  the  poetic  temperament,  but 
indispensable  to  the  accomplishment  of  the  gigantic  tasks  which 
he  afterward  assumed.  He  has  himself  borne  testimony  to  his 
general  diligence  in  his  new  vocation,  and  tells  us  that  on  one 
occasion  be  transcribed  no  less  than  a  hundred  and  twenty  folio 
pages  at  a  sitting. 

In  the  midst  of  these  mechanical  duties,  however,  he  did  not 
lose  sight  of  the  favorite  objects  of  his  study  and  meditation. 
He  made  frequent  excursions  into  the  Lowland  as  well  as  High- 
land districts,  in  search  of  traditionary  relics.  These  pilgrim- 
ages he  frequently  performed  on  foot.  His  constitution,  now 
become  hardy  by  severe  training,  made  him  careless  of  expos- 
ure, and  his  frank  and  warm-hearted  manners — eminently 
favorable  to  his  purposes,  by  thawing  at  once  any  feelings  of 
frosty  reserve,  which  might  have  encountered  a  stranger — made 
him  equally  welcome  at  the  staid  and  decorous  manse,  and  at 
the  rough  but  hospitable  board  of  the  peasant.  Here  was  in- 
deed the  study  of  the  future  novelist ;  the  very  school  in  which 
to  meditate  those  models  of  character  and  situation  which  he 
was  afterward,  long  afterward,  to  transfer,  in  such  living  colors, 
to  the  canvas.  "  He  was  makin'  himsell  a'  the  time,"  says  one 
of  his  companions,  "but  he  didna  ken,  maybe,  what  he  was 
about,  till  years  had  past.  At  first  he  thought  o'  little,  I  dare 
say,  but  the  queerness  and  the  fun."    The  honest  Writer  to  the 


no  PRESCOTT 

Signet  does  not  seem  to  have  thought  it  either  so  funny  or  so 
profitable;  for  on  his  son's  return  from  one  of  these  raids,  as 
he  styled  them,  the  old  gentleman  peevishly  inquired  how  he 
had  been  living  so  long.  ''  Pretty  much  like  the  young  ravens," 
answered  Walter ;  "  I  only  wished  I  had  been  as  good  a  player 
on  the  flute  as  poor  George  Primrose  in  '  The  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field/ If  I  had  his  art,  I  should  like  nothing  better  than  to 
tramp  like  him  from  cottage  to  cottage  over  the  world."  "  I 
doubt,"  said  the  grave  Clerk  to  the  Signet,  "  I  greatly  doubt, 
sir,  you  were  born  for  nae  better  than  a  gangrel  scrape  gut  1" 
Perhaps  even  the  revelation,  could  it  have  been  made  to  him, 
of  his  son's  future  literary  glory,  would  scarcely  have  satisfied 
the  worthy  father,  who,  probably,  would  have  regarded  a  seat 
on  the  bench  of  the  Court  of  Sessions  as  much  higher  glory.  At 
all  events,  this  was  not  far  from  the  judgment  of  Dominie 
Mitchell,  who,  in  his  notice  of  his  illustrious  pupil,  "  sincerely 
regrets  that  Sir  Walter's  precious  time  was  so  much  devoted 
to  the  diilce  rather  than  the  utile  of  composition,  and  that  his 
great  talents  should  have  been  wasted  on  such  subjects  " ! 

It  is  impossible  to  glance  at  Scott's  early  life  without  per- 
ceiving how  powerfully  all  its  circumstances,  whether  acci- 
dental or  contrived,  conspired  to  train  him  for  the  peculiar 
position  he  was  destined  to  occupy  in  the  world  of  letters. 
There  never  was  a  character  in  whose  infant  germ,  as  it  were, 
the  mature  and  fully  developed  lineaments  might  be  more  dis- 
tinctly traced.  What  he  was  in  his  riper  age,  so  he  was  in  his 
boyhood.  We  discern  the  same  tastes,  the  same  peculiar  tal- 
ents, the  same  social  temper  and  affections,  and,  in  a  great 
degree,  the  same  habits — in  their  embryo  state,  of  course,  but 
distinctly  marked — and  his  biographer  has  shown  no  little  skill 
in  enabling  us  to  trace  their  gradual,  progressive  expansion, 
from  the  hour  of  his  birth  up  to  the  full  prime  and  maturity  of 
manhood. 

In  1792,  Scott,  whose  original  destination  of  a  Writer  had 
been  changed  to  that  of  an  Advocate — from  his  father's  con- 
viction, as  it  would  seem,  of  the  superiority  of  his  talents  to  the 
former  station — was  admitted  to  the  Scottish  bar.  Here  he 
continued  in  assiduous  attendance  during  the  regular  terms, 
but  more  noted  for  his  stories  in  the  Outer  House  than  his 
arguments  in  court.    It  may  appear  singular  that  a  person  so 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  m 

gifted,  both  as  a  writer  and  as  a  raconteur,  should  have  had  no 
greater  success  in  his  profession.  But  the  case  is  not  uncom- 
mon. Indeed,  experience  shows  that  the  most  eminent  writers 
have  not  made  the  most  successful  speakers.  It  is  not  .^ore 
strange  than  that  a  good  writer  of  novels  should  not  excel  as 
a  dramatic  author.  Perhaps  a  consideration  of  the  subject 
would  lead  us  to  refer  the  phenomena  in  both  cases  to  the  same 
principle.  At  all  events,  Scott  was  an  exemplification  of  both ; 
and  we  leave  the  solution  to  those  who  have  more  leisure  and 
ingenuity  to  unravel  the  mystery. 

Scott's  leisure,  in  the  mean  time,  was  well  employed  in  storing 
his  mind  with  German  romance,  with  whose  wild  fictions,  in- 
trenching on  the  grotesque,  indeed,  he  found  at  that  time  more 
sympathy  than  in  later  life.  In  1796  he  first  appeared  before 
the  public  as  a  translator  of  Biirger's  well-known  ballads, 
thrown  off  by  him  at  a  heat,  and  which  found  favor  with  the 
few  into  whose  hands  they  passed.  He  subsequently  adven- 
tured in  Monk  Lewis's  crazy  bark — "  Tales  of  Wonder  " — 
which  soon  went  to  pieces,  leaving,  however,  among  its  surviv- 
ing fragments  the  scattered  contributions  of  Scott. 

At  last,  in  1802,  he  gave  to  the  world  his  first  two  volumes 
of  the  "  Border  Minstrelsy,"  printed  by  his  old  school-fellow, 
Ballantyne,  and  which,  by  the  beauty  of  the  typography,  as  well 
as.  literary  execution,  made  a  sort  of  epoch  in  Scottish  literary 
history.  There  was  no  work  of  Scott's  after-life  which  showed 
the  result  of  so  much  preliminary  labor.  Before  ten  years  old, 
he  had  collected  several  volumes  of  ballads  and  traditions,  and 
we  have  seen  how  diligently  he  pursued  the  same  vocation  in 
later  years.  The  publication  was  admitted  to  be  far  more  faith- 
ful, as  well  as  more  skilfully  collated,  than  its  prototype,  the 
"  Reliques  "  of  Bishop  Percy ;  while  his  notes  contained  a  mass 
of  antiquarian  information  relative  to  border  life,  conveyed  in 
a  style  of  beauty  unprecedented  in  topics  of  this  kind,  and  en- 
livened with  a  higher  interest  than  poetic  fiction.  Percy's 
**  Reliques  "  had  prepared  the  way  for  the  kind  reception  of  the 
"  Minstrelsy,"  by  the  general  relish — notwithstanding  Dr.  John- 
son's protest — it  had  created  for  the  simple  pictures  of  a  pastoral 
and  heroic  time.  Burns  had  since  familiarized  the  English  ear 
with  the  Doric  melodies  of  his  native  land ;  and  now  a  greater 
than  Burns  appeared,  whose  first  production,  by  a  singular 


112  PRESCOTT 

chance,  came  into  the  world  in  the  very  year  in  which  the  Ayr- 
shire minstrel  was  withdrawn  from  it,  as  if  nature  had  intended 
that  the  chain  of  poetic  inspiration  should  not  be  broken.  The 
delight  of  the  public  was  further  augmented  on  the  appearance 
of  the  third  volume  of  the  "  Minstrelsy,"  containing  various 
imitations  of  the  old  ballad,  which  displayed  all  the  rich  fashion 
of  the  antique,  purified  from  the  mold  and  rust  by  which  the 
beauties  of  such  weather-beaten  trophies  are  defaced. 

The  first  edition  of  the  "  Minstrelsy,"  consisting  of  eight  hun- 
dred copies,  went  off,  as  Lockhart  tells  us,  in  less  than  a  year ; 
and  the  poet,  on  the  publication  of  a  second,  received  £500  ster- 
ling from  Longman — an  enormous  price  for  such  a  commodity, 
but  the  best  bargain,  probably,  that  the  bookseller  ever  made, 
as  the  subsequent  sale  has  since  extended  to  twenty  thousand 
copies. 

Scott  was  not  in  great  haste  to  follow  up  his  success.  It  was 
three  years  later  before  he  took  the  field  as  an  independent 
author,  in  a  poem  which  at  once  placed  him  among  the  great 
original  writers  of  his  country.  The  "  Lay  of  the  Last  Min- 
strel," a  complete  expansion  of  the  ancient  ballad  into  an  epic 
form,  was  published  in  1805.  It  was  opening  a  new  creation 
in  the  realm  of  fancy.  It  seemed  as  if  the  author  had  trans- 
fused into  his  page  the  strong  delineations  of  the  Homeric  pen- 
cil, the  rude  but  generous  gallantry  of  a  primitive  period,  sof- 
tened by  the  more  airy  and  magical  inventions  of  Italian 
romance,^  and  conveyed  in  tones  of  natural  melody  such  as  had 
not  been  heard  since  the  strains  of  Burns.  The  book  speedily 
found  that  unprecedented  circulation  which  all  his  subsequent 
compositions  attained.  Other  writers  had  addressed  themselves 
to  a  more  peculiar  and  limited  feeling — to  a  narrower  and  gen- 
erally a  more  select  audience.  But  Scott  was  found  to  combine 
all  the  qualities  of  interest  for  every  order.  He  drew  from  the 
pure  springs  which  gush  forth  in  every  heart.  His  narrative 
chained  every  reader's  attention  by  the  stirring  variety  of  its 

»  "  Mettendo  lo  Turpin,  lo  metto  anch'  io," 

says  Ariosto,  playfully,  when  he  tells  a  particularly  tougjh  story. 

'•  I  cannot  tell  how  the  truth  may  be, 
I  say  the  tale  as  'twas  said  to  me," 

says  the  author  of  the  "  Lay"  on  a  similar  occasion.  The  resemblance  might  be  traced 
much  further  than  mere  forms  of  expression,  to  the  Italian,  who,  like 

"  •    •    •    the  Ariosto  of  the  North, 
Sung  ladye-love,  and  war,  romance,  and  knightly  worth." 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  113 

incidents,  while  the  fine  touches  of  sentiment  with  which  it 
abounded,  Hke  wild  flowers,  springing  up  spontaneously  around, 
were  full  of  freshness  and  beauty,  that  made  one  wonder  that 
others  should  not  have  stooped  to  gather  them  before. 

The  success  of  the  "  Lay  "  determined  the  course  of  its  au- 
thor's future  life.  Notwithstanding  his  punctual  attention  to 
his  profession,  his  utmost  profits  for  any  one  year  of  the  ten 
he  had  been  in  practice  had  not  exceeded  £230 ;  and  of  late  they 
had  sensibly  declined.  Latterly,  indeed,  he  had  coquetted  some- 
what too  openly  with  the  muse  for  his  professional  reputation. 
Themis  has  always  been  found  a  stern  and  jealous  mistress, 
chary  of  dispensing  her  golden  favors  to  those  who  are  seduced 
into  a  flirtation  with  her  more  volatile  sister. 

Scott,  however,  soon  found  himself  in  a  situation  that  made 
him  independent  of  her  favors.  His  income  from  the  two 
offices  to  which  he  was  promoted,  of  sheriff  of  Selkirk  and  clerk 
of  the  Court  of  Sessions,  was  so  ample,  combined  with  what  fell 
to  him  by  inheritance  and  marriage,  that  he  was  left  at  liberty 
freely  to  consult  his  own  tastes.  Amid  the  seductions  of  poetry, 
however,  he  never  shrunk  from  his  burdensome  professional 
duties ;  and  he  submitted  to  all  their  drudgery  with  unflinching 
constancy,  when  the  labors  of  his  pen  made  the  emoluments 
almost  beneath  consideration.  He  never  relished  the  idea  of 
being  divorced  from  active  life  by  the  solitary  occupations  of  a 
recluse.  And  his  official  functions,  however  severely  they  taxed 
his  time,  may  be  said  to  have,  in  some  degree,  compensated  him 
by  the  new  scenes  of  life  which  they  were  constantly  disclosing 
— the  very  materials  of  those  fictions  on  which  his  fame  and 
his  fortune  were  to  be  built. 

Scott's  situation  was,  on  the  whole,  eminently  propitious  to 
literary  pursuits.  He  was  married,  and  passed  the  better  por- 
tion of  the  year  in  the  country,  where  the  quiet  pleasures  of  his 
fireside  circle  and  a  keen  relish  for  rural  sports  relieved  his  mind 
and  invigorated  both  health  and  spirits.  In  early  life,  it  seems, 
he  had  been  crossed  in  love ;  and,  like  Dante  and  Byron,  to  whom 
in  this  respect  he  is  often  compared,  he  has  more  than  once,  ac- 
cording to  his  biographer,  shadowed  forth  in  his  verses  the  ob- 
ject of  his  unfortunate  passion.  He  does  not  appear  to  have 
taken  it  so  seriously,  however,  nor  to  have  shown  the  morbid 
sensibility  in  relation  to  it  discovered  by  both  Byron  and  Dante, 
8 


114 


PRESCOTT 


the  former  of  whom  perhaps  found  his  cara  sposa  so  much  too 
cold,  as  the  latter  certainly  did  his  too  hot,  for  his  own  tempera- 
ment, as  to  seek  relief  from  the  present  in  the  poetical  visions 
of  the  past. 

Scott's  next  great  poem  was  his  "  Marmion,"  transcending, 
in  the  judgment  of  many,  all  his  other  epics,  and  containing,  in 
the  judgment  of  all,  passages  of  poetic  fire  which  he  never 
equalled;  but  which,  nevertheless,  was  greeted  on  its  entrance 
into  the  world  by  a  critique  in  the  leading  journal  of  the  day  of 
the  most  caustic  and  unfriendly  temper.  The  journal  was  the 
"  Edinburgh,"  to  which  he  had  been  a  frequent  contributor,  and 
the  reviewer  was  his  intimate  friend  Jeffrey.  The  unkindest 
cut  in  the  article  was  the  imputation  of  a  neglect  of  Scottish 
character  and  feeling.  "  There  is  scarcely  one  trait  of  true 
Scottish  nationality  or  patriotism  introduced  into  the  whole 
poem;  and  Mr.  Scott's  only  expression  of  admiration  for  the 
beautiful  country  to  which  he  belongs  is  put,  if  we  rightly  re- 
member, into  the  mouth  of  one  of  his  southern  favorites."  This 
of  Walter  Scott !  The  critic  had  some  misgivings,  it  would 
seem,  as  to  the  propriety  of  the  part  he  was  playing,  or  at  least 
as  to  its  effect  on  the  mind  of  his  friend,  since  he  sent  a  copy  of 
the  yet  unpublished  article  to  the  latter  on  the  day  he  was  en- 
gaged to  dine  with  him,  with  a  request  for  a  speedy  answer. 
Scott  testified  no  visible  marks  of  vexation,  although  his  wife 
was  not  so  discreet,  telling  Jeffrey  rather  bluntly  she  hoped 
Constable  would  pay  him  well  for  abusing  his  friend.  The  gos- 
sips of  the  day  in  Edinburgh  exaggerated  the  story  into  her 
actually  turning  the  reviewer  out  of  doors.     He  well  deserved  it. 

The  affair,  however,  led  to  important  consequences.  Scott 
was  not  slow  after  this  in  finding  the  political  principles  of  the 
"  Edinburgh  '*  so  repugnant  to  his  own  (and  they  certainly  were 
as  opposite  as  the  poles)  that  he  first  dropped  the  journal,  and 
next  labored  with  unwearied  diligence  to  organize  another, 
whose  main  purpose  should  be  to  counteract  the  heresies  of  the 
former.  This  w^as  the  origin  of  the  London  "  Quarterly," 
more  imputable  to  Scott's  exertions  than  to  those  of  any,  indeed 
all,  other  persons.  The  result  has  been,  doubtless,  highly  ser- 
viceable to  the  interests  of  both  morals  and  letters.  Not  that 
the  new  review  was  conducted  with  more  fairness  or,  in  this 
sense,  principle  than  its  antagonist.     A  remark  of  Scott's  own. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  115 

in  a  letter  to  Ellis,  shows  with  how  much  principle.  "  I  have 
run  up  an  attempt  on  '  The  Curse  of  Kehama  '  for  the  *  Quar- 
terly.' It  affords  cruel  openings  to  the  quizzers,  and  I  suppose 
will  get  it  roundly  in  the  *  Edinburgh  Review/  I  would  have 
made  a  very  different  hand  of  it,  indeed,  had  the  order  of  the 
day  been  pour  dechirer."  But,  although  the  fate  of  the  indi- 
vidual was  thus,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  matter  of  caprice  or  rather 
prejudgment  in  the  critic,  yet  the  great  abstract  questions  in 
morals,  politics,  and  hterature,  by  being  discussed  on  both  sides, 
were  presented  in  a  fuller  and  of  course  fairer  light  to  the  pub- 
lic. Another  beneficial  result  to  letters  was — and  we  shall  gain 
credit,  at  least,  for  candor  in  confessing  it — that  it  broke  down 
somewhat  of  that  divinity  which  hedged  in  the  despotic  we  of 
the  reviewer,  so  long  as  no  rival  arose  to  contest  the  sceptre. 
The  claims  to  infallibility,  so  long  and  slavishly  acquiesced  in, 
fell  to  the  ground  when  thus  stoutly  asserted  by  conflicting  par- 
ties. It  was  pretty  clear  that  the  same  thing  could  not  be  all 
black  and  all  white  at  the  same  time.  In  short,  it  was  the  old 
story  of  pope  and  antipope;  and  the  public  began  to  find  out 
that  there  might  be  hopes  for  the  salvation  of  an  author,  though 
damned  by  the  literary  popedom.  Time,  indeed,  by  reversing 
many  of  its  decisions,  must  at  length  have  shown  the  same 
thing. 

But  to  return.  Scott  showed  how  nearly  he  had  been  touched 
to  the  quick  by  two  other  acts  not  so  discreet.  These  were  the 
establishment  of  an  Annual  Register,  and  of  the  great  publish- 
ing house  of  the  Ballantynes,  in  which  he  became  a  silent  part- 
ner. The  last  step  involved  him  in  grievous  embarrassments, 
and  stimulated  him  to  exertions  which  required  "  a  frame  of 
adamant  and  soul  of  fire  "  to  have  endured.  At  the  same  time, 
we  find  him  overwhelmed  with  poetical,  biographical,  historical, 
and  critical  compositions,  together  with  editorial  labors  of  ap- 
palling magnitude.  In  this  multiplication  of  himself  in  a  thou- 
sand forms,  we  see  him  always  the  same,  vigorous  and  effective. 
"  Poetry,"  he  says,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  is  a  scourging  crop, 
and  ought  not  to  be  hastily  repeated.  Editing,  therefore,  may 
be  considered  as  a  green  crop  of  turnips  or  peas,  extremely  use- 
.ful  to  those  whose  circumstances  do  not  admit  of  giving  their 
farm  a  summer  fallow."  It  might  be  regretted,  however,  that 
he  should  have  wasted  powers  fitted  for  so  much  higher  culture 


ii6  PRESCOTT 

on  the  coarse  products  of  a  kitchen-garden,  which  might  have 
been  safely  trusted  to  inferior  hands. 

In  1811  Scott  gave  to  the  v^orld  his  exquisite  poem,  "The 
Lady  of  the  Lake."  One  of  his  fair  friends  had  remonstrated 
with  him  on  thus  risking  again  the  laurel  he  had  already  won. 
He  replied,  with  characteristic  and  indeed  prophetic  spirit :  "  If 
I  fail,  I  will  write  prose  all  my  life.     But  if  I  succeed — 

"  *  Up  wi'  the  bonnie  blue  bonnet, 
The  dirk  and  the  feather  an  a'! '  " 

In  his  eulogy  on  Byron,  Scott  remarks :  "  There  has  been  no 
reposing  under  the  shade  of  his  laurels,  no  living  upon  the  re- 
source of  past  reputation ;  none  of  that  coddling  and  petty  pre- 
caution which  little  authors  call '  taking  care  of  their  fame.'  By- 
ron let  his  fame  take  care  of  itself."  Scott  could  not  have  more 
accurately  described  his  own  character. 

"  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  was  welcomed  with  an  enthusiasm 
surpassing  that  which  attended  any  other  of  his  poems.  It 
seemed  like  the  sweet  breathings  of  his  native  pibroch,  stealing 
over  glen  and  mountain,  and  calling  up  all  the  delicious  associa- 
tions of  rural  solitude,  which  beautifully  contrasted  with  the 
din  of  battle  and  the  shrill  cry  of  the  war-trumpet  that  stirred 
the  soul  in  every  page  of  his  "  Marmion."  The  publication  of 
this  work  carried  his  fame  as  a  poet  to  its  most  brilliant  height. 
Its  popularity  may  be  inferred  from  the  fact  stated  by  Lock- 
hart,  that  the  post-horse  duty  rose  to  an  extraordinary  degree 
in  Scotland,  from  the  eagerness  of  travellers  to  visit  the  locali- 
ties of  the  poem.  A  more  substantial  evidence  was  afforded  in 
its  amazing  circulation,  and  consequently  its  profits.  The 
press  could  scarcely  keep  pace  with  the  public  demand,  and  no 
less  than  fifty  thousand  copies  of  it  have  been  sold  since  the  date 
of  its  appearance.  The  successful  author  realized  more  than 
two  thousand  guineas  from  his  production.  Milton  received 
ten  pounds  for  the  two  editions  which  he  lived  to  see  of  his 
"  Paradise  Lost."  The  Ayrshire  bard  had  sighed  for  "  a  lass 
wi'  a  tocher."  Scott  had  now  found  one  in  the  muse,  such  as 
rno  Scottish  nor  any  other  poet  had  ever  found  before. 

While  the  poetical  fame  of  Scott  was  thus  at  its  zenith,  a  new 
star  rose  above  the  horizon,  whose  eccentric  course  and  dazzling 
radiance  completely  bewildered  the  spectator.     In  1812  "  Childe 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  117 

Harold  "  appeared,  and  the  attention  seemed  to  be  now  called, 
for  the  first  time,  from  the  outward  form  of  man  and  visible 
nature  to  the  secret  depths  of  the  soul.  The  darkest  recesses  of 
human  passion  were  laid  open,  and  the  note  of  sorrow  was  pro- 
longed in  tones  of  agonized  sensibility,  the  more  touching  as 
coming  from  one  who  was  placed  on  those  dazzling  heights  of 
rank  and  fashion  which,  to  the  vulgar  eye  at  least,  seem  to  lie 
in  unclouded  sunshine.  Those  of  the  present  generation  who 
have  heard  only  the  same  key  thrummed  ad  nauseam  by  the 
feeble  imitators  of  his  lordship  can  form  no  idea  of  the  effect 
produced  when  the  chords  were  first  swept  by  the  master's  fin- , 
gers.  It  was  found  impossible  for  the  ear  once  attuned  to 
strains  of  such  compass  and  ravishing  harmony  to  return  with 
the  same  relish  to  purer,  it  might  be,  but  tamer  melody;  and 
the  sweet  voice  of  the  Scottish  minstrel  lost  much  of  its  power 
to  charm,  let  him  charm  never  so  wisely.  While  "  Rokeby  " 
was  in  preparation  bets  were  laid  on  the  rival  candidates  by  the 
wits  of  the  day.  The  sale  of  this  poem,  though  great,  showed  a 
sensible  decline  in  the  popularity  of  its  author.  This  became 
still  more  evident  on  the  publication  of  "  The  Lord  of  the 
Isles  " ;  and  Scott  admitted  the  conviction  with  his  characteristic 
spirit  and  good  nature.  "  *  Well,  James,'  he  said  to  his  printer, 
*  I  have  given  you  a  week ;  what  are  people  saying  about  "  The 
Lord  of  the  Isles  "  ? '  I  hesitated  a  little,  after  the  fashion  of 
Gil  Bias,  but  he  speedily  brought  the  matter  to  a  point.  *  Come,* 
he  said,  *  speak  out,  my  good  fellow ;  what  has  put  it  into  your 
head  to  be  on  so  much  ceremony  with  me  all  of  a  sudden  ?  But, 
I  see  how  it  is,  the  result  is  given  in  one  word — disappointment.* 
My  silence  admitted  his  inference  to  the  fullest  extent.  His 
countenance  certainly  did  look  rather  blank  for  a  few  seconds ; 
in  truth,  he  had  been  wholly  unprepared  for  the  event.  At 
length  he  said,  with  perfect  cheerfulness :  *  Well,  well,  James, 
so  be  it ;  but  you  know  we  must  not  droop,  for  we  can't  afford 
to  give  over.  Since  one  line  has  failed,  we  must  stick  to  some- 
thing else.' "  This  something  else  was  a  mine  he  had  already 
hit  upon,  of  invention  and  substantial  wealth,  such  as  Thomas 
the  Rhymer,  or  Michael  Scott,  or  any  other  adept  in  the  black 
art,  had  never  dreamed  of. 

Everybody  knows  the  story  of  the  composition  of  "  Waver- 
ley  " — the  most  interesting  story  in  the  annals  of  letters — and 


Ii8  PRESCOTT 

how,  some  ten  years  after  its  commencement,  it  was  fished  out 
of  some  old  lumber  in  an  attic,  and  completed  in  a  few  weeks 
for  the  press,  in  1814.  Its  appearance  marks  a  more  distinct 
epoch  in  English  literature  than  that  of  the  poetry  of  its  author. 
All  previous  attempts  in  the  same  school  of  fiction — a  school  of 
English  growth — had  been  cramped  by  the  limited  information 
or  talent  of  the  writers.  Smollett  had  produced  his  spirited  sea- 
pieces,  and  Fielding  his  warm  sketches  of  country  life,  both  of 
them  mixed  up  with  so  much  Billingsgate  as  required  a  strong 
flavor  of  wit  to  make  them  tolerable.  Richardson  had  covered 
acres  of  canvas  with  his  faithful  family  pictures.  Mrs.  Rad- 
cliffe  had  dipped  up  to  the  elbows  in  horrors ;  while  Miss  Bur- 
ney's  fashionable  gossip  and  Miss  Edgeworth's  Hogarth  draw- 
ings of  the  prose — not  the  poetry — of  life  and  character  had 
each  and  all  found  favor  in  their  respective  ways.  But  a  work 
now  appeared  in  which  the  author  swept  over  the  whole  range 
of  character  with  entire  freedom  as  well  as  fidelity,  ennobling 
the  whole  by  high  historic  associations,  and  in  a  style  varying 
with  his  theme,  but  whose  pure  and  classic  flow  was  tinctured 
with  just  so  much  of  poetic  coloring  as  suited  the  purposes  of 
romance.     It  was  Shakespeare  in  prose. 

The  work  was  published,  as  we  know,  anonymously.  Mr. 
Gillies  states,  however,  that  while  in  the  press  fragments  of  it 
were  communicated  to  "  Mr.  Mackenzie,  Dr.  Brown,  Mrs.  Ham- 
ilton, and  other  savants  or  savantes,  whose  dicta  on  the  merits 
of  a  new  novel  were  considered  unimpeachable."  By  their  ap- 
probation "  a  strong  body  of  friends  was  formed,  and  the  curi- 
osity of  the  public  prepared  the  way  for  its  reception."  This 
may  explain  the  rapidity  with  which  the  anonymous  publication 
rose  into  a  degree  of  favor  which,  though  not  less  surely,  per- 
haps, it  might  have  been  more  slow  in  achieving.  The  author 
jealously  preserved  his  incognito,  and,  in  order  to  heighten  the 
mystification,  flung  off  almost  simultaneously  a  variety  of 
works,  in  prose  and  poetry,  any  one  of  which  might  have  been 
the  labor  of  months.  The  public  for  a  moment  was  at  fault. 
There  seemed  to  be  six  Richmonds  in  the  field.  The  world, 
therefore,  was  reduced  to  the  dilemma  of  either  supposing  that 
half  a  dozen  different  hands  could  work  in  precisely  the  same 
style,  or  that  one  could  do  the  work  of  half  a  dozen.  With 
time,  however,  the  veil  wore  thinner  and  thinner,  until  at  length, 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  119 

and  long  before  the  ingenious  argument  of  Mr.  Adolphus,  there 
was  scarcely  a  critic  so  purblind  as  not  to  discern  behind  it  the 
features  of  the  mighty  minstrel. 

Constable  had  offered  £700  for  the  new  novel.  "  It  was," 
says  Lockhart,  "  ten  times  as  much  as  Miss  Edgeworth  ever 
realized  from  any  of  her  popular  Irish  tales."  Scott  declined 
the  offer,  which  had  been  a  good  one  for  the  bookseller  had  he 
made  it  as  many  thousand.  But  it  passed  the  art  of  necromancy 
to  divine  this. 

Scott,  once  entered  on  this  new  career,  followed  it  up  with 
an  energy  unrivalled  in  the  history  of  literature.  The  public 
mind  was  not  suffered  to  cool  for  a  moment  before  its  attention 
was  called  to  another  miracle  of  creation  from  the  same  hand. 
Even  illness  that  would  have  broken  the  spirit  of  most  men,  as 
it  prostrated  the  physical  energies  of  Scott,  opposed  no  impedi- 
ment to  the  march  of  composition.  When  he  could  no  longer 
write,  he  could  dictate ;  and  in  this  way,  amid  the  agonies  of  a 
racking  disease,  he  composed  **  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor," 
the  ''  Legend  of  Montrose,"  and  a  great  part  of  "  Ivanhoe." 
The  first,  indeed,  is  darkened  with  those  deep  shadows  that 
might  seem  thrown  over  it  by  the  sombre  condition  of  its  author. 
But  what  shall  we  say  of  the  imperturbable  dry  humor  of  the 
gallant  Captain  Dugald  Dalgetty  of  Drumthwacket,  or  of  the 
gorgeous  revelries  of  Ivanhoe — 

"  Such  sights  as  youthful  poets  dream, 
On  summer  eves  by  haunted  stream  " — 

what  shall  we  say  of  such  brilliant  day-dreams  for  a  bed  of 
torture?  Never  before  had  the  spirit  triumphed  over  such 
agonies  of  the  flesh.  *'  The  best  way,"  said  Scott,  in  one  of  his 
talks  with  Gillies,  "  is,  if  possible,  to  triumph  over  disease  by 
setting  it  at  defiance,  somewhat  on  the  same  principle  as  one 
avoids  being  stung  by  boldly  grasping  a  nettle." 

The  prose  fictions  were  addressed  to  a  much  larger  audience 
than  the  poems  could  be.  They  had  attractions  for  every  age 
and  every  class.  The  profits,  of  course,  were  commensurate. 
Arithmetic  has  never  been  so  severely  taxed  as  in  the  computa- 
tion of  Scott's  productions,  and  the  proceeds  resulting  from 
them.  In  one  year  he  received  (or,  more  properly,  was  cred- 
ited with — for  it  is  somewhat  doubtful  how  much  he  actually 


I20  PRESCOTT 

received)  i  15,000  for  his  novels,  comprehending  the  first  edi- 
tion and  the  copyright.  The  discovery  of  this  rich  mine 
furnished  its  fortunate  proprietor  with  the  means  of  gratify- 
ing the  fondest,  and  indeed  most  chimerical,  desires.  He 
had  always  coveted  the  situation  of  a  lord  of  acres — a  Scottish 
laird;  where  his  passion  for  planting  might  find  scope  in  the 
creation  of  whole  forests — for  everything  with  him  was  on  a 
magnificent  scale — and  where  he  might  indulge  the  kindly  feel- 
ings of  his  nature  in  his  benevolent  offices  to  a  numerous  and 
dependent  tenantry.  The  few  acres  of  the  original  purchase 
now  swelled  into  hundreds,  and,  for  aught  we  know,  thou- 
sands ;  for  one  tract  alone  we  find  incidentally  noticed  as  cost- 
ing £30,000.  "  It  rounds  off  the  property  so  handsomely," 
he  says  in  one  of  his  letters.  There  was  always  a  corner  to 
"  round  off."  The  mansion,  in  the  mean  time,  from  a  simple 
cottage  orne,  was  amplified  into  the  dimensions  almost,  as  well 
as  the  bizarre  proportions,  of  some  old  feudal  castle.  The  fur- 
niture and  decorations  were  of  the  costliest  kind ;  the  wainscots 
of  oak  and  cedar,  the  floors  tessellated  with  marbles,  or  woods 
of  different  dyes,  the  ceilings  fretted  and  carved  with  all  the 
delicate  tracery  of  a  Gothic  abbey,  the  storied  windows  blazoned 
with  the  richly  colored  insignia  of  heraldry,  the  walls  garnished 
with  time-honored  trophies,  or  curious  specimens  of  art,  or  vol- 
umes sumptuously  bound — in  short,  with  all  that  luxury  could 
demand  or  ingenuity  devise;  while  a  copious  reservoir  of  gas 
supplied  every  corner  of  the  mansion  with  such  fountains  of 
light  as  must  have  puzzled  the  genius  of  the  lamp  to  provide  for 
the  less  fortunate  Aladdin. 

Scott's  exchequer  must  have  been  seriously  taxed  in  another 
form  by  the  crowds  of  visitors  whom  he  entertained  under  his 
hospitable  roof.  There  was  scarcely  a  person  of  note,  or  indeed 
not  of  note,  who  visited  that  country  without  paying  his  respects 
to  the  Lion  of  Scotland.  Lockhart  reckons  up  a  full  sixth  of 
the  British  peerage  who  had  been  there  within  his  recollection ; 
and  Captain  Hall,  in  his  amusing  "  Notes,"  remarks  that  it  was 
not  unusual  for  a  dozen  or  more  coach-loads  to  find  their  way 
into  his  grounds  in  the  course  of  the  day,  most  of  whom  found 
or  forced  an  entrance  into  the  mansion.  Such  was  the  heavy 
tax  paid  by  his  celebrity,  and,  we  may  add,  his  good  nature. 
For,  if  the  one  had  been  a  whit  less  than  the  other,  he  could 
never  have  tolerated  such  a  nuisance. 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  121 

The  cost  of  his  correspondence  gives  one  no  light  idea  of  the 
demands  made  on  his  time,  as  well  as  purse,  in  another  form. 
His  postage  for  letters,  independently  of  franks,  by  which  a 
large  portion  of  it  was  covered,  amounted  to  a  hundred  and  fifty 
pounds,  it  seems,  in  the  course  of  the  year.  In  this,  indeed, 
should  be  included  ten  pounds  for  a  pair  of  unfortunate  **  Chero- 
kee Lovers,"  sent  all  the  way  from  our  own  happy  land,  in  order 
to  be  godfathered  by  Sir  Walter  on  the  London  boards.  Per- 
haps the  smart-money  he  had  to  pay  on  this  interesting  occasion 
had  its  influence  in  mixing  up  rather  more  acid  than  was  nat- 
ural to  him  in  his  judgments  of  our  countrymen.  At  all  events 
the  Yankees  find  little  favor  on  the  few  occasions  on  which  he 
has  glanced  at  them  in  his  correspondence.  "  I  am  not  at  all 
surprised,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  Miss  Edgeworth,  apparently 
chiming  in  with  her  own  tune — "  I  am  not  at  all  surprised  at 
what  you  say  of  the  Yankees.  They  are  a  people  possessed  of 
very  considerable  energy,  quickened  and  brought  into  eager  ac- 
tion by  an  honorable  love  of  their  country,  and  pride  in  their 
institutions;  but  they  are  as  yet  rude  in  their  ideas  of  social 
intercourse,  and  totally  ignorant,  speaking  generally,  of  all  the 
art  of  good-breeding,  which  consists  chiefly  in  a  postponement 
of  one's  own  petty  wishes  or  comforts  to  those  of  others.  By 
rude  questions  and  observations,  an  absolute  disrespect  to  other 
people's  feelings,  and  a  ready  indulgence  of  their  own,  they 
make  one  feverish  in  their  company,  though  perhaps  you  may 
be  ashamed  to  confess  the  reason.  But  this  will  wear  ofif,  and 
is  already  wearing  away.  Men  when  they  have  once  got 
benches  will  soon  fall  into  the  use  of  cushions.  They  are  ad- 
vancing in  the  lists  of  our  literature,  and  they  will  not  be  long 
deficient  in  the  petite  morale,  especially  as  they  have,  like  our- 
selves, the  rage  for  travelling."  On  another  occasion  he  does, 
indeed,  admit  having  met  with  in  the  course  of  his  life  **  four 
or  five  well-lettered  Americans  ardent  in  pursuit  of  knowledge, 
and  free  from  the  ignorance  and  forward  presumption  which 
distinguish  many  of  their  countrymen."  This  seems  hard 
measure ;  but  perhaps  we  should  find  it  difficult  among  the  many 
who  have  visited  this  country  to  recollect  as  great  a  number  of 
Englishmen — and  Scotchmen  to  boot — entitled  to  a  higher  de- 
gree of  commendation.  It  can  hardly  be  that  the  well-informed 
and  well-bred  men  of  both  countries  make  a  point  of  staying  at 


122  PRESCOTT 

home ;  so  we  suppose  we  must  look  for  the  solution  of  the  mat- 
ter in  the  existence  of  some  disagreeable  ingredient,  common 
to  the  characters  of  both  nations,  sprouting  as  they  do  from  a 
common  stock,  which  remains  latent  at  home,  and  is  never  fully 
disclosed  till  they  get  into  a  foreign  climate.  But  as  this  prob- 
lem seems  pregnant  with  philosophical,  physiological,  and,  for 
aught  we  know,  psychological  matter,  we  have  not  courage  for 
it  here,  but  recommend  the  solution  to  Miss  Martineau,  to  whom 
it  will  afford  a  very  good  title  for  a  new  chapter  in  her  next 
edition.  The  strictures  we  have  quoted,  however,  to  speak 
more  seriously,  are  worth  attending  to,  coming  as  they  do  from 
a  shrewd  observer,  and  one  whose  judgments,  though  here 
somewhat  colored,  no  doubt,  by  political  prejudice,  are  in  the 
main  distinguished  by  a  sound  and  liberal  philanthropy.  But, 
were  he  ten  times  an  enemy,  we  would  say,  "  Eas  est  ab  hoste 
doceri." 

With  the  splendid  picture  of  the  baronial  residence  at  Abbots- 
ford  Mr.  Lockhart  closes  all  that  at  this  present  writing  we 
have  received  of  his  delightful  work  in  this  country.  And  in 
the  last  sentence  the  melancholy  sound  of  "  the  muffled  drum  " 
gives  ominous  warning  of  what  we  are  to  expect  in  the  sixth 
and  concluding  volume.  In  the  dearth  of  more  authentic  in- 
formation, we  will  piece  out  our  sketch  with  a  few  facts  gleaned 
from  the  somewhat  meagre  bill  of  fare — meagre  by  comparison 
with  the  rich  banquet  of  the  true  Amphitryon — afforded  by  the 
"  Recollections ''  of  Mr.  Robert  Pierce  Gillies. 

The  unbounded  popularity  of  the  Waverley  novels  led  to  still 
more  extravagant  anticipations  on  the  part  both  of  the  publish- 
ers and  author.  Some  hints  of  a  falling  off,  though  but  slightly, 
in  the  public  favor,  were  unheeded  by  both  parties ;  though,  to 
say  truth,  the  exact  state  of  things  was  never  disclosed  to  Scott, 
it  being  Ballantyne's  notion  that  it  would  prove  a  damper,  and 
that  the  true  course  was  "  to  press  on  more  sail  as  the  wind 
lulled."  In  these  sanguine  calculations  not  only  enormous 
sums,  or,  to  speak  correctly,  bills,  were  given  for  what  had  been 
written,  but  the  author's  drafts,  to  the  amount  of  many  thou- 
sand pounds,  were  accepted  by  Constable  in  favor  of  works,  the 
very  embryos  of  which  lay  not  only  unformed  but  unimagined, 
in  the  womb  of  time.  In  return  for  this  singular  accommoda- 
tion, Scott  was  induced  to  indorse  the  drafts  of  his  publisher; 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 


123 


and  in  this  way  an  amount  of  liabilities  was  incurred  which,  con- 
sidering the  character  of  the  house,  and  its  transactions,  it  is 
altogether  inexplicable  that  a  person  in  the  independent  position 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott  should  have  subjected  himself  to  for  a 
moment.  He  seems  to  have  had  entire  confidence  in  the  stabil- 
ity of  the  firm ;  a  confidence  to  which  it  seems,  from  Mr.  Gil- 
lies's  account,  not  to  have  been  entitled  from  the  first  moment 
of  his  connection  with  it.  The  great  reputation  of  the  house, 
however,  the  success  and  magnitude  of  some  of  its  transactions, 
especially  the  publication  of  these  novels,  gave  it  a  large  credit, 
which  enabled  it  to  go  forward  with  a  great  show  of  prosperity 
in  ordinary  times,  and  veiled  the  tottering  state  of  things  prob- 
ably from  Constable's  own  eyes.  It  is  but  the  tale  of  yesterday. 
The  case  of  Constable  &  Co.  is,  unhappily,  a  very  familiar  one 
to  us.  But,  when  the  hurricane  of  1825  came  on,  it  swept  away 
all  those  buildings  that  were  not  founded  on  a  rock ;  and  those 
of  Messrs.  Constable,  among  others,  soon  became  literally  mere 
castles  in  the  air.  In  plain  English,  the  firm  stopped  payment. 
The  assets  were  very  trifling  in  comparison  with  the  debts. 
And  Sir  Walter  Scott  was  found  on  their  paper  to  the  frightful 
amount  of  one  hundred  thousand  pounds. 

His  conduct  on  the  occasion  was  precisely  what  was  to  have 
been  anticipated  from  one  who  had  declared  on  a  similar  though 
much  less  appalling  conjuncture,  "  I  am  always  ready  to  make 
any  sacrifices  to  do  justice  to  my  engagements,  and  would  rather 
sell  anything  or  everything  than  be  less  than  a  true  man  to  the 
world."  He  put  up  his  house  and  furniture  in  town  at  auction ; 
delivered  over  his  personal  effects  at  Abbotsford,  his  plate, 
books,  furniture,  etc.,  to  be  held  in  trust  for  his  creditors  (the  es- 
tate itself  had  been  recently  secured  to  his  son,  on  occasion  of  his 
marriage),  and  bound  himself  to  discharge  a  certain  amount 
annually  of  the  liabilities  of  the  insolvent  firm.  He  then,  with 
his  characteristic  energy,  set  about  the  performance  of  his  Her- 
culean task.  He  took  lodgings  in  a  third-rate  house  in  St. 
David's  Street ;  saw  but  little  company ;  abridged  the  hours  usu- 
ally devoted  to  his  meals  and  his  family ;  gave  up  his  ordinary 
exercise ;  and,  in  short,  adopted  the  severe  habits  of  a  regular 
Grub  Street  stipendiary. 

*'  For  many  years,"  he  said  to  Mr.  Gillies,  "  I  have  been  ac- 
customed to  hard  work,  because  I  found  it  a  pleasure;  now, 


124  PRESCOTT 

with  all  due  respect  for  Falstaff 's  principle,  "  nothing  on  com- 
pulsion,' I  certainly  will  not  shrink  from  work  because  it  has 
become  necessary." 

One  of  his  first  tasks  was  his  "  Life  of  Bonaparte,"  achieved 
in  the  space  of  thirteen  months.  For  this  he  received  fourteen 
thousand  pounds,  about  eleven  hundred  per  month ;  not  a  bad 
bargain,  either,  as  it  proved,  for  the  publishers.  The  first  two 
volumes  of  the  nine  which  make  up  the  English  edition  were  a 
rifacimento  of  what  he  had  before  compiled  for  the  '*  Annual 
Register."  With  every  allowance  for  the  inaccuracies  and  the 
excessive  expansion  incident  to  such  a  flashing  rapidity  of  ex- 
ecution, the  work,  taking  into  view  the  broad  range  of  its  topics, 
its  shrewd  and  sagacious  reflections,  and  the  free,  bold,  and 
picturesque  coloring  of  its  narration — and,  above  all,  consider- 
ing the  brief  time  in  which  it  was  written — is  indisputably  one 
of  the  most  remarkable  monuments  of  genius  and  industry — 
perhaps  the  most  remarkable  ever  recorded. 

Scott's  celebrity  made  everything  that  fell  from  him,  however 
trifling — the  dew-drops  from  the  lion's  mane — of  value.  But 
none  of  the  many  adventures  he  embarked  in,  or  rather  set 
afloat,  proved  so  profitable  as  the  republication  of  his  novels, 
with  his  notes  and  illustrations.  As  he  felt  his  own  strength 
in  the  increasing  success  of  his  labors,  he  appears  to  have  re- 
laxed somewhat  from  them,  and  to  have  again  resumed  some- 
what of  his  ancient  habits,  and  in  a  mitigated  degree  his  ancient 
hospitality.  But  still  his  exertions  were  too  severe,  and  pressed 
heavily  on  the  springs  of  health,  already  deprived  by  age  of 
their  former  elasticity  and  vigor.  At  length,  in  1831,  he  was 
overtaken  by  one  of  those  terrible  shocks  of  paralysis  which 
seem  to  have  been  constitutional  in  his  family,  but  which,  with 
more  precaution  and  under  happier  auspices,  might  doubtless 
have  been  postponed  if  not  wholly  averted.  At  this  time  he 
had,  in  the  short  space  of  little  more  than  five  years,  by  his  sac- 
rifices and  efforts,  discharged  about  two-thirds  of  the  debt  for 
which  he  was  responsible;  an  astounding  result,  wholly  un- 
paralleled in  the  history  of  letters!  There  is  something  inex- 
pressibly painful  in  this  spectacle  of  a  generous  heart  thus  cour- 
ageously contending  with  fortune,  bearing  up  against  the  tide 
with  unconquerable  spirit,  and  finally  overwhelmed  by  it  just 
within  reach  of  shore. 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  125 

The  rest  of  his  story  is  one  of  humiliation  and  sorrow.  He 
was  induced  to  make  a  voyage  to  the  Continent,  to  try  the  effect 
of  a  more  genial  climate.  Under  the  sunny  sky  of  Italy  he 
seemed  to  gather  new  strength  for  a  while.  But  his  eye  fell 
with  indifference  on  the  venerable  monuments  which  in  better 
days  would  have  kindled  all  his  enthusiasm.  The  invalid 
sighed  for  his  own  home  at  Abbotsford.  The  heat  of  the 
weather  and  the  fatigue  of  rapid  travel  brought  on  another 
shock  which  reduced  him  to  a  state  of  deplorable  imbecility. 
In  this  condition  he  returned  to  his  own  halls,  where  the  sight 
of  early  friends  and  of  the  beautiful  scenery — the  creation,  as  it 
were,  of  his  own  hands — seemed  to  impart  a  gleam  of  melan- 
choly satisfaction,  which  soon,  however,  sunk  into  insensibility. 
To  his  present  situation  might  well  be  applied  the  exquisite 
verses  which  he  indited  on  another  melancholy  occasion : 

"  Yet  not  the  landscape  to  mine  eye 

Bears  those  bright  hues  that  once  it  bore; 
Though  evening,  with  her  richest  dye, 
,  Flames  o'er  the  hills  of  Ettrick's  shore. 

"  With  listless  look  along  the  plain 
I  see  Tweed's  silver  current  glide. 
And  coldly  mark  the  holy  fane 
Of  Melrose  rise  in  ruined  pride. 

"The  quiet  lake,  the  balmy  air, 

The  hill,  the  stream,  the  tower,  the  tree — 
Are  they  still  such  as  once  they  were, 
Or  is  the  dreary  change  in  me?" 

Providence  in  its  mercy  did  not  suffer  the  shattered  frame 
long  to  outlive  the  glorious  spirit  which  had  informed  it.  He 
breathed  his  last  on  September  21,  1832.  His  remains  were 
deposited,  as  he  had  always  desired,  in  the  hoary  abbey  of  Dry- 
burgh  ;  and  the  pilgrim  from  many  a  distant  clime  shall  repair 
to  the  consecrated  spot  so  long  as  the  reverence  for  exalted 
genius  and  worth  shall  survive  in  the  human  heart. 

This  sketch,  brief  as  we  could  make  it,  of  the  literary  history 
of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  has  extended  so  far  as  to  leave  but  little 
space  for — what  Lockhart's  volumes  afford  ample  materials  for 
— his  personal  character.  Take  it  for  all  and  all,  it  is  not  too 
much  to  say  that  this  character  is  probably  the  most  remarkable 


126  PRESCOTT 

on  record.  There  is  no  man  that  we  now  recall  of  historical 
celebrity  who  combined  in  so  eminent  a  degree  the  highest  qual- 
ities of  the  moral,  the  intellectual,  and  the  physical.  He  united 
in  his  own  character  what  hitherto  had  been  found  incompatible. 
Though  a  poet  and  living  in  an  ideal  world,  he  was  an  exact, 
methodical  man  of  business;  though  achieving  with  the  most 
wonderful  fertility  of  genius,  he  was  patient  and  laborious;  a 
mousing  antiquarian,  yet  with  the  most  active  interest  in  the 
present  and  whatever  was  going  on  around  him ;  with  a  strong 
turn  for  a  roving  life  and  military  adventure,  he  was  yet  chained 
to  his  desk  more  hours  at  some  periods  of  his  life  than  a  monkish 
recluse ;  a  man  with  a  heart  as  capacious  as  his  head ;  a  Tory, 
brim  full  of  Jacobitism,  yet  full  of  sympathy  and  unaffected 
familiarity  with  all  classes,  even  the  humblest ;  a  successful  au- 
thor, without  pedantry  and  without  conceit ;  one,  indeed,  at  the 
head  of  the  republic  of  letters,  and  yet  with  a  lower  estimate  of 
letters,  as  compared  with  other  intellectual  pursuits,  than  was 
ever  hazarded  before. 

The  first  quality  of  his  character,  or  rather  that  which  forms 
the  basis  of  it,  as  of  all  great  characters,  was  his  energy.  We 
see  it  in  his  early  youth  triumphing  over  the  impediments  of 
nature,  and  in  spite  of  lameness  making  him  conspicuous  In 
every  sort  of  athletic  exercise — clambering  up  dizzy  precipices, 
wading  through  treacherous  fords,  and  performing  feats  of 
pedestrianism  that  make  one's  joints  ache  to  read  of.  As  he 
advanced  in  life  we  see  the  same  force  of  purpose  turned  to 
higher  objects.  A  striking  example  occurs  in  his  organization 
of  the  journals  and  the  publishing-house  in  opposition  to  Con- 
stable. In  what  Herculean  drudgery  did  not  this  latter  busi- 
ness, in  which  he  undertook  to  supply  matter  for  the  nimble 
press  of  Ballantyne,  involve  him!  While,  in  addition  to  his 
own  concerns,  he  had  to  drag  along  by  his  solitary  momentum 
a  score  of  heavier  undertakings,  that  led  Lockhart  to  compare 
him  to  a  steam-engine  with  a  train  of  coal-wagons  hitched  on 
to  it.  "  Yes,"  said  Scott,  laughing,  and  making  a  crashing  cut 
with  his  axe  (for  they  were  felling  larches),  "  and  there  was  a 
cursed  lot  of  dung-carts,  too." 

We  see  the  same  powerful  energies  triumphing  over  disease 
at  a  later  period,  when,  indeed,  nothing  but  a  resolution  to  get 
the  better  of  it  enabled  him  to  do  so.     "  Be  assured,"  he  re- 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  127 

marked  to  Mr.  Gillies,  "  that  if  pain  could  have  prevented  my 
application  to  literary  labor  not  a  page  of  '  Ivanhoe  '  would  have 
been  written.  Now,  if  I  had  given  way  to  mere  feelings  and 
ceased  to  work,  it  is  a  question  whether  the  disorder  might  not 
have  taken  a  deeper  root  and  become  incurable."  But  the  most 
extraordinary  instance  of  this  trait  is  the  readiness  with  which 
he  assumed,  and  the  spirit  with  which  he  carried  through  till 
his  mental  strength  broke  down  under  it,  the  gigantic  task  im- 
posed on  him  by  the  failure  of  Constable. 

It  mattered  little,  indeed,  what  the  nature  of  the  task  was, 
whether  it  were  organizing  an  opposition  to  a  political  faction, 
or  a  troop  of  cavalry  to  resist  invasion,  or  a  medley  of  wild 
Highlanders  and  Edinburgh  cockneys  to  make  up  a  royal  pup- 
pet-show— a  loyal  celebration — for  "  his  Most  Sacred  Majesty  " 
— he  was  the  master-spirit  that  gave  the  cue  to  the  whole  dram- 
atis personce.  This  potent  impulse  showed  itself  in  the  thor- 
oughness with  which  he  prescribed  not  merely  the  general  or- 
ders but  the  execution  of  the  minutest  details  in  his  own  person. 
Thus  all  around  him  was  the  creation,  as  it  were,  of  his  indi- 
vidual exertion.  His  lands  waved  with  forests  planted  with 
his  own  hands,  and  in  process  of  time  cleared  by  his  own  hands. 
He  did  not  lay  the  stones  in  mortar  exactly  for  his  whimsical 
castle,  but  he  seems  to  have  superintended  the  operation  from 
the  foundation  to  the  battlements.  The  antique  relics,  the 
curious  works  of  art,  the  hangings  and  furniture  even  with 
which  his  halls  were  decorated,  were  specially  contrived  or  se- 
lected by  him ;  and,  to  read  his  letters  at  this  time  to  his  friend 
Terry,  one  might  fancy  himself  perusing  the  correspondence  of 
an  upholsterer,  so  exact  and  technical  is  he  in  his  instructions. 
We  say  this  not  in  disparagement  of  his  great  qualities.  It  is 
only  the  more  extraordinary,  for,  while  he  stooped  to  such 
trifles,  he  was  equally  thorough  in  matters  of  the  highest  mo- 
ment.    It  was  a  trait  of  character. 

Another  quality  which,  like  the  last,  seems  to  have  given  the 
tone  to  his  character,  was  his  social  or  benevolent  feelings.  His 
heart  was  an  unfailing  fountain  which,  not  merely  the  distresses, 
but  the  joys,  of  his  fellow-creatures  made  to  flow  like  water. 
In  early  life,  and  possibly  sometimes  in  later,  high  spirits  and 
a  vigorous  constitution  led  him  occasionally  to  carry  his  social 
propensities  into  convivial  excess.     But  he  never  was  in  dan- 


128  PRESCOTT 

get  of  the  habitual  excess  to  which  a  vulgar  mind — and  some- 
times, alas!  one  more  finely  tuned — abandons  itself.  Indeed, 
with  all  his  conviviality,  it  was  not  the  sensual  relish,  but  the 
social,  which  acted  on  him.  He  was  neither  gourmet  nor  gour- 
mand; but  his  social  meetings  were  endeared  to  him  by  the  free 
interchange  of  kindly  feelings  with  his  friends.  La  Bruyere 
says  (and  it  is  odd  he  should  have  found  it  out  in  Louis  XIV's 
court),  "  The  heart  has  more  to  do  than  the  head  with  the  pleas- 
ures, or  rather  promoting  the  pleasures,  of  society "  C  Un 
homme  est  d'un  meilleur  commerce  dans  la  societe  par  le  coeur 
que  par  I'esprW).  If  report,  the  report  of  travellers,  be  true, 
we  Americans,  at  least  the  New  Englanders,  are  too  much  per- 
plexed with  the  cares  and  crosses  of  life  to  afford  many  genuine 
specimens  of  this  bonhomie.  However  this  may  be,  we  all, 
doubtless,  know  some  such  character,  whose  shining  face,  the 
index  of  a  cordial  heart  radiant  with  beneficent  pleasure,  diffuses 
its  own  exhilarating  glow  wherever  it  appears.  Rarely,  indeed, 
is  this  precious  quality  found  united  with  the  most  exalted  in- 
tellect. Whether  it  be  that  Nature,  chary  of  her  gifts,  does  not 
care  to  shower  too  many  of  them  on  one  head ;  or,  that  the  public 
admiration  has  led  the  man  of  intellect  to  set  too  high  a  value 
on  himself,  or  at  least  his  own  pursuits,  to  take  an  interest  in 
the  inferior  concerns  of  others ;  or,  that  the  fear  of  compromis- 
ing his  dignity  puts  him  "  on  points  "  with  those  who  approach 
him ;  or,  whether,  in  truth,  the  very  magnitude  of  his  own  repu- 
tation throws  a  freezing  shadow  over  us  little  people  in  his 
neighborhood;  whatever  be  the  cause,  it  is  too  true  that  the 
highest  powers  of  mind  are  very  often  deficient  in  the  only  one 
which  can  make  the  rest  of  much  worth  in  society — the  power 
of  pleasing. 

Scott  was  not  one  of  these  little  great.  His  was  not  one  of 
those  dark-lantern  visages  which  concentrate  all  their  light  on 
their  own  path  and  are  black  as  midnight  to  all  about  them. 
He  had  a  ready  sympathy,  a  word  of  contagious  kindness  or 
cordial  greeting  for  all.  His  manners,  too,  were  of  a  kind  to 
dispel  the  icy  reserve  and  awe  which  his  great  name  was  cal- 
culated to  inspire.  His  frank  address  was  a  sort  of  open  sesame 
to  every  heart.  He  did  not  deal  in  sneers,  the  poisoned  weapons 
which  come  not  from  the  head,  as  the  man  who  launches  them 
is  apt  to  think,  but  from  an  acid  heart,  or  perhaps  an  acid 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  129 

Stomach,  a  very  common  laboratory  of  such  small  artillery. 
Neither  did  Scott  amuse  the  company  with  parliamentary 
harangues  or  metaphysical  disquisitions.  His  conversation 
was  of  the  narrative  kind,  not  formal,  but  as  casually  suggested 
by  some  passing  circumstance  or  topic,  and  thrown  in  by  way 
of  illustration.  He  did  not  repeat  himself,  however,  but  con- 
tinued to  give  his  anecdotes  such  variations,  by  rigging  them 
out  in  a  new  "  cocked  hat  and  walking-cane,"  as  he  called  it, 
that  they  never  tired  like  the  the  thrice-told  tale  of  a  chronic 
raconteur.  He  allowed  others,  too,  to  take  their  turn,  and 
thought  with  the  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's : 

"  Carve  to  all  but  just  enough, 
Let  them  neither  starve  nor  stuff; 
And  that  you  may  have  your  due, 
Let  your  neighbors  carve  for  you." 

He  relished  a  good  joke,  from  whatever  quarter  it  came,  and 
was  not  over-dainty  in  his  manner  of  testifying  his  satisfaction. 
"  In  the  full  tide  of  mirth  he  did  indeed  laugh  the  heart's  laugh," 
says  Mr.  Adolphus.  "  Give  me  an  honest  laugher,"  said  Scott 
himself,  on  another  occasion,  when  a  buckram  man  of  fashion 
had  been  paying  him  a  visit  at  Abbotsford.  His  manners,  free 
from  affectation  or  artifice  of  any  sort,  exhibited  the  spontane- 
ous movements  of  a  kind  disposition,  subject  to  those  rules  of 
good-breeding  which  Nature  herself  might  have  dictated.  In 
this  way  he  answered  his  own  purposes  admirably,  as  a  painter 
of  character,  by  putting  every  man  in  good  humor  with  him- 
self ;  in  the  same  manner  as  a  cunning  portrait-painter  amuses 
his  sitters  with  such  store  of  fun  and  anecdote  as  may  throw 
them  off  their  guard,  and  call  out  the  happiest  expressions  of 
their  countenances. 

Scott,  in  his  wide  range  of  friends  and  companions,  does  not 
seem  to  have  been  over-fastidious.  In  the  instance  of  John 
Ballantyne  it  has  exposed  him  to  some  censure.  Indeed,  a  more 
worthless  fellow  never  hung  on  the  skirts  of  a  great  man ;  for 
he  did  not  take  the  trouble  to  throw  a  decent  veil  over  the  gross- 
est excesses.  But  then  he  had  been  the  schoolboy  friend  of 
Scott ;  had  grown  up  with  him  in  a  sort  of  dependence — a  rela- 
tion which  begets  a  kindly  feeling  in  the  party  that  confers  the 
benefits  at  least.  How  strong  it  was  in  him  may  be  inferred 
9 


i^o  PRESCOTT 

from  his  remark  at  his  funeral.  "  I  feel,"  said  Scott,  mourn- 
fully, as  the  solemnity  was  concluded — "  I  feel  as  if  there  would 
be  less  sunshine  for  me  from  this  day  forth."  It  must  be  ad- 
mitted, however,  that  his  intimacy  with  little  Rigdumfunnidos, 
whatever  apology  it  may  find  in  Scott's  heart,  was  not  very  cred- 
itable to  his  taste. 

But  the  benevolent  principle  showed  itself  not  merely  in 
words,  but  in  the  more  substantial  form  of  actions.  How  many 
are  the  cases  recorded  of  indigent  merit  which  he  drew  from 
obscurity,  and  almost  warmed  into  life  by  his  own  generous  and 
most  delicate  patronage.  Such  were  the  cases,  among  others, 
of  Leyden,  Weber,  Hogg.  How  often  and  how  cheerfully  did 
he  supply  such  literary  contributions  as  were  solicited  by  his 
friends — and  they  taxed  him  pretty  liberally — amid  all  the 
pressure  of  business,  and  at  the  height  of  his  fame  when  his 
hours  were  golden  hours  indeed  to  him !  In  the  more  vulgar 
and  easier  forms  of  charity  he  did  not  stint  his  hand,  though, 
instead  of  direct  assistance,  he  preferred  to  enable  others  to  as- 
sist themselves;  in  this  way  fortifying  their  good  habits,  and 
relieving  them  from  the  sense  of  personal  degradation. 

But  the  place  where  his  benevolent  impulses  found  their  pro- 
per theatre  for  expansion  was  his  own  home ;  surrounded  by  a 
happy  family,  and  dispensing  all  the  hospitalities  of  a  great  feu- 
dal proprietor.  "  There  are  many  good  things  in  life,"  he  says, 
in  one  of  his  letters,  "  whatever  satirists  and  misanthropes  may 
say  to  the  contrary,  but  probably  the  best  of  all,  next  to  a  con- 
science void  of  offence  (without  which,  by  the  by,  they  can 
hardly  exist),  are  the  quiet  exercise  and  enjoyment  of  the  social 
feelings  in  which  we  are  at  once  happy  ourselves  and  the  cause 
of  happiness  to  them  who  are  dearest  to  us."  Every  page  of 
the  work  almost  shows  us  how  intimately  he  blended  himself 
with  the  pleasures  and  the  pursuits  of  his  own  family,  watched 
over  the  education  of  his  children,  shared  in  their  rides,  their 
rambles,  and  sports,  losing  no  opportunity  of  kindling  in  their 
young  minds  a  love  of  virtue  and  honorable  principles  of  action. 
He  delighted,  too,  to  collect  his  tenantry  around  him,  multiply- 
ing holidays,  when  young  and  old  might  come  together  under 
his  roof-tree,  when  the  jolly  punch  was  liberally  dispensed  by 
himself  and  his  wife  among  the  elder  people,  and  the  Hog- 
manay cakes  and  pennies  were  distributed  among  the  young 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT  151 

ones;  while  his  own  children  mingled  in  the  endless  reels  and 
hornpipes  on  the  earthen  floor,  and  the  laird  himself,  mixing  in 
the  groups  of  merry  faces,  had  his  "  private  joke  for  every  old 
wife  or  *  gausie  carle,'  his  arch  compliment  for  the  ear  of  every 
bonnie  lass,  and  his  hand  and  his  blessing  for  the  head  of  every 
little  Eppie  Daidle  from  Abbotstown  or  Broomylees."  *'  Sir 
Walter,"  said  one  of  his  old  retainers,  "  speaks  to  every  man 
as  if  he  were  his  blood-relation."  No  wonder  that  they  should 
have  returned  this  feeling  with  something  warmer  than  blood- 
relations  usually  do.  Mr.  Gillies  tells  an  anecdote  of  the 
"  Ettrick  Shepherd,"  showing  how  deep  a  root  such  feelings, 
notwithstanding  his  rather  odd  way  of  expressing  them,  some- 
times had  taken  in  his  honest  nature.  "  Mr.  James  Ballantyne 
walking  home  with  him  one  evening  from  Scott's,  where,  by 
the  by,  Hogg  had  gone  uninvited,  happened  to  observe :  *  I  do 
not  at  all  like  this  illness  of  Scott's.  I  have  often  seen  him  look 
jaded  of  late,  and  am"  afraid  it  is  serious.'  '  Hand  your  tongue, 
or  I'll  gar  you  measure  your  length  on  the  pavement ! '  replied 
Hogg.  '  You  fause,  down-hearted  loon,  that  you  are ;  ye  daur 
to  speak  as  if  Scott  were  on  his  deathbed !  It  can  not  be,  it  must 
not  be !  I  will  not  suffer  you  to  speak  that  gait.'  The  senti- 
ment was  like  that  of  Uncle  Toby  at  the  bedside  of  Le  Fevre ; 
and,  at  these  words,  the  Shepherd's  voice  became  suppressed 
with  emotion." 

But  Scott's  sympathies  were  not  confined  to  his  species ;  and, 
if  he  treated  them  like  blood-relations,  he  treated  his  brute  fol- 
lowers like  personal  friends.  Everyone  remembers  old  Maida, 
and  faithful  Camp,  the  *'  dear  old  friend,"  whose  loss  cost  him 
a  dinner.  Mr.  Gillies  tells  us  that  he  went  into  his  study  on 
one  occasion,  when  he  was  winding  off  his  "  Vision  of  Don 
Roderick."  "  'Look  here,'  said  the  poet,  *  I  have  just  begun 
to  copy  over  the  rhymes  that  you  heard  to-day,  and  applauded 
so  much.  Return  to  supper,  if  you  can ;  only  don't  be  late,  as 
you  perceive  we  keep  early  hours,  and  Wallace  will  not  suffer 
me  to  rest  after  six  in  the  morning.  Come,  good  dog,  and  help 
the  poet.'  At  this  hint,  Wallace  seated  himself  upright  on  a 
chair  next  his  master,  who  offered  him  a  newspaper,  which  he 
directly  seized,  looking  very  wise,  and  holding  it  firmly  and  con- 
tentedly in  his  mouth.  Scott  looked  at  him  with  great  satisfac- 
tion, for  he  was  excessively  fond  of  dogs.     *  Very  well,'  said 


1^2 


PRESCOTt 


he,  '  now  we  shall  get  on.'  And  so  I  left  them  abruptly,  know- 
ing that  my  '  absence  would  be  the  best  company.'  "  This  fel- 
lowship, indeed,  extended  much  further  than  to  his  canine  fol- 
lowers, of  which,  including  hounds,  terriers,  mastiffs,  and 
mongrels,  he  had  certainly  a  goodly  assortment.  We  find,  also, 
Grimalkin  installed  in  a  responsible  post  in  the  library,  and  out 
of  doors  pet  hens,  pet  donkeys,  and — tell  it  not  in  Judea — a  pet 

pig' 

Scott's  sensibilities,  though  easily  moved,  and  widely  dif- 
fused, were  warm  and  sincere.  None  shared  more  cordially  in 
the  troubles  of  his  friends ;  but  on  all  such  occasions,  with  a  true 
manly  feeling,  he  thought  less  of  mere  sympathy  than  of  the 
most  effectual  way  for  mitigating  their  sorrows.  After  a  touch- 
ing allusion,  in  one  of  his  epistles,  to  his  dear  friend  Erskine's 
death,  he  concludes :  "  I  must  turn  to,  and  see  what  can  be  done 
about  getting  some  pension  for  his  daughters."  In  another 
passage,  which  may  remind  one  of  some  of  the  exquisite  touches 
in  Jeremy  Taylor,  he  indulges  in  the  following  beautiful  strain 
of  philosophy :  "  The  last  three  or  four  years  have  swept  away 
more  than  half  the  friends  with  whom  I  lived  in  habits  of  great 
intimacy.     So  it  must  be  with  us : 

"  '  When  ance  life's  day  draws  near  the  gloamin' ' — 

and  yet  we  proceed  with  our  plantations  and  plans  as  if  any  tree 
but  the  sad  cypress  would  accompany  us  to  the  grave,  where 
our  friends  have  gone  before  us.  It  is  the  way  of  the  world, 
however,  and  must  be  so ;  otherwise  life  would  be  spent  in  un- 
availing mourning  for  those  whom  we  have  lost.  It  is  better  to 
enjoy  the  society  of  those  who  remain  to  us."  His  well-dis- 
ciplined heart  seems  to  have  confessed  the  influence  of  this 
philosophy,  in  his  most  ordinary  relations.  "  I  can't  help  it," 
was  a  favorite  maxim  of  his,  "  and  therefore  will  not  think  about 
it ;  for  that  at  least  I  can  help." 

Among  his  admirable  qualities  must  not  be  omitted  a  certain 
worldly  sagacity  or  shrewdness,  which  is  expressed  as  strongly 
as  any  individual  trait  can  be,  in  some  of  his  portraits,  especially 
in  the  excellent  one  of  him  by  Leslie.  Indeed,  his  countenance 
would  seem  to  exhibit,  ordinarily,  much  more  of  Dandie  Din- 
mont's  benevolent  shrewdness  than  of  the  eye  glancing  from 
earth  to  heaven,  which  in  fancy  we  assign  to  the  poet,  and  which, 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT 


133 


in  some  moods,  must  have  been  his.  This  trait  may  be  readily 
discerned  in  all  his  business  transactions,  which  he  managed 
with  perfect  knowledge  of  character,  as  well  as  of  his  own 
rights.  No  one  knew  better  than  he  the  market  value  of  an 
article ;  and,  though  he  underrated  his  literary  wares,  as  to  their 
mere  literary  rank,  he  set  as  high  a  money  value  on  them,  and 
made  as  sharp  a  bargain,  as  any  of  the  trade  could  have  done. 
In  his  business  concerns,  indeed,  he  managed  rather  too  much ; 
or,  to  speak  more  correctly,  was  too  fond  of  mixing  up  mystery 
in  his  transactions,  which,  Hke  most  mysteries,  proved  of  little 
service  to  their  author.  Scott's  correspondence,  especially  with 
his  son,  affords  obvious  examples  of  shrewdness,  in  the  advice 
he  gives  as  to  his  deportment  in  the  novel  situations  and  society 
into  which  the  young  cornet  was  thrown.  Occasionally,  in- 
deed, in  the  cautious  hints  about  etiquette  and  social  observ- 
ances, we  are  reminded  of  that  ancient  "  arbiter  elegantiarum/' 
Lord  Chesterfield;  though,  it  must  be  confessed,  there  is 
throughout  a  high  moral  tone,  which  the  noble  lord  did  not  very 
scrupulously  affect. 

Another  feature  in  Scott's  character  was  his  loyalty ;  which, 
indeed,  some  people  would  extend  into  a  more  general  deference 
to  rank  not  royal.  We  do,  indeed,  meet  with  a  tone  of  defer- 
ence occasionally  to  the  privileged  orders  (or  rather  privileged 
persons,  as  the  King,  his  own  chief,  etc.,  for  to  the  mass  of  stars 
and  garters  he  showed  no  such  respect),  which  falls  rather  un- 
pleasantly on  the  ear  of  a  republican.  But,  independently  of 
the  feelings  which  should  rightfully  have  belonged  to  him  as 
the  subject  of  a  monarchy,  and  without  which  he  must  have 
been  a  false-hearted  subject,  his  own  were  heightened  by  a  po- 
etical coloring,  that  mingled  in  his  mind  even  with  much  more 
vulgar  relations  of  life.  At  the  opening  of  the  regalia  in  Holy- 
rood  House,  when  the  honest  burgomaster  deposited  the  crown 
on  the  head  of  one  of  the  young  ladies  present,  the  good  man 
probably  saw  nothing  more  in  the  dingy  diadem  than  we  should 
have  seen — a  head-piece  for  a  set  of  men  no  better  than  himself, 
and,  if  the  old  adage  of  a  "  dead  lion  "  holds  true,  not  quite  so 
good.  But  to  Scott's  Imagination  other  views  were  unfolded. 
"  A  thousand  years  their  cloudy  wings  expanded  "  around  him, 
and,  in  the  dim  visions  of  distant  times,  he  beheld  the  venerable 
line  of  monarchs  who  had  swayed  the  councils  of  his  country 


134  PRESCOTT 

in  peace,  and  led  her  armies  in  battle.  The  "  golden  round  " 
became  in  his  eye  the  symbol  of  his  nation's  glory ;  and,  as  he 
heaved  a  heavy  oath  from  his  heart,  he  left  the  room  in  agita- 
tion, from  which  he  did  not  speedily  recover.  There  was  not 
a  spice  of  affectation  in  this — for  who  ever  accused  Scott  of  af- 
fectation ? — but  there  was  a  good  deal  of  poetry,  the  poetry  of 
sentiment. 

We  have  said  that  this  feeling  mingled  in  the  more  common 
concerns  of  his  life.  His  cranium,  indeed,  to  judge  from  his 
busts,  must  have  exhibited  a  strong  development  of  the  organ 
of  veneration.  He  regarded  with  reverence  everything  con- 
nected with  antiquity.  His  establishment  was  on  the  feudal 
scale ;  his  house  was  fashioned  more  after  the  feudal  ages  than 
his  own;  and  even  in  the  ultimate  distribution  of  his  fortune, 
although  the  circumstance  of  having  made  it  himself  relieved 
him  from  any  legal  necessity  of  contravening  the  suggestions 
of  natural  justice,  he  showed  such  attachment  to  the  old  aris- 
tocratic usage  as  to  settle  nearly  the  whole  of  it  on  his  eldest 
son. 

The  influence  of  this  poetic  sentiment  is  discernible  in  his 
most  trifling  acts,  in  his  tastes,  his  love  of  the  arts,  his  social 
habits.  His  museum,  house,  and  grounds  were  adorned  with 
relics,  curious  not  so  much  from  their  workmanship  as  their 
historic  associations.  It  was  the  ancient  fountain  from  Edin- 
burgh, the  Tolbooth  lintels,  the  blunderbuss  and  spleughan  of 
Rob  Roy,  the  drinking-cup  of  Prince  Charlie,  or  the  like.  It 
was  the  same  in  the  arts.  The  tunes  he  loved  were  not  the  re- 
fined and  complex  melodies  of  Italy,  but  the  simple  notes  of  his 
native  minstrelsy,  from  the  bagpipe  of  John  of  Skye,  or  from 
the  harp  of  his  own  lovely  and  accomplished  daughter.  So  also 
in  painting.  It  was  not  the  masterly  designs  of  the  great  Flem- 
ish and  Italian  schools  that  adorned  his  walls,  but  some  portrait 
of  Claverhouse,  or  of  Queen  Mary,  or  of  "  glorious  old  John." 
In  architecture,  we  see  the  same  spirit  in  the  singular  "  romance 
of  stone  and  lime,"  which  may  be  said  to  have  been  his  own  de- 
vice, down  to  the  minutest  details  of  its  finishing.  We  see  it 
again  in  the  joyous  celebrations  of  his  feudal  tenantry,  the  good 
old  festivals,  the  Hogmanay,  the  Kirn,  etc.,  long  fallen  into  des- 
uetude, when  the  old  Highland  piper  sounded  the  same  wild 
pibroch  that  had  so  often  summoned  the  clans  together,  for  war 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT 


135 


or  for  wassail,  among  the  fastnesses  of  the  mountains.  To  the 
same  source,  in  fine,  may  be  traced  the  feelings  of  superstition 
which  seemed  to  hover  round  Scott's  mind  like  some  '*  strange, 
mysterious  dream,"  giving  a  romantic  coloring  to  his  conversa- 
tion and  his  writings,  but  rarely  if  ever  influencing  his  actions. 
It  was  a  poetic  sentiment. 

Scott  was  a  Tory  to  the  backbone.  Had  he  come  into  the 
world  half  a  century  sooner  he  would,  no  doubt,  have  made  a 
figure  under  the  banner  of  the  Pretender.  He  was  at  no  great 
pains  to  disguise  his  political  creed  ;,witness  his  jolly  drinking- 
song  on  the  acquittal  of  Lord  Melville.  This  was  verse;  but 
his  prose  is  not  much  more  qualified.  "  As  for  Whiggery  in 
general,"  he  says,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  I  can  only  say  that,  as 
no  man  can  be  said  to  be  utterly  overset  until  his  rump  has  been 
higher  than  his  head,  so  I  cannot  read  in  history  of  any  free 
State  which  has  been  brought  to  slavery  until  the  rascal  and 
uninstructed  populace  had  had  their  short  hour  of  anarchical 
government,  which  naturally  leads  to  the  stern  repose  of  mil- 
itary despotism.  .  .  .  With  these  convictions,  I  am  very 
jealous  of  Whiggery,  under  all  modifications ;  and  I  must  say 
my  acquaintance  with  the  total  want  of  principle  in  some  of  its 
warmest  professors  does  not  tend  to  recommend  it."  With  all 
this,  however,  his  Toryism  was  not,  practically,  of  that  sort 
which  blunts  a  man's  sensibilities  for  those  who  are  not  of  the 
same  porcelain  clay  with  himself.  No  man.  Whig  or  Radical, 
ever  had  less  of  this  pretension,  or  treated  his  inferiors  with 
greater  kindness,  and  indeed  familiarity ;  a  circumstance  noticed 
by  every  visitor  at  his  hospitable  mansion,  who  saw  him  stroll- 
ing round  his  grounds,  taking  his  pinch  of  snuff  out  of  the  mull 
of  some  "  gray-haired  old  hedger,"  or  leaning  on  honest  Tom 
Purdie's  shoulder,  and  taking  sweet  counsel  as  to  the  right 
method  of  thinning  a  plantation.  But,  with  all  this  familiarity, 
no  man  was  better  served  by  his  domestics.  It  was  the  service 
of  love;  the  only  service  that  power  cannot  command,  and 
money  cannot  buy. 

Akin  to  the  feelings  of  which  we  have  been  speaking  was  the 
truly  chivalrous  sense  of  honor  which  stamped  his  whole  con- 
duct. We  do  not  mean  that  Hotspur  honor  which  is  roused 
only  by  the  drum  and  fife — though  he  says  of  himself,  "  I  like 
the  sound  of  a  drum  as  well  as  Uncle  Toby  ever  did  " — ^but  that 


136  PRESCOTT 

honor  which  is  deep-seated  in  the  heart  of  every  true  gentle- 
man, shrinking  with  sensitive  dehcacy  from  the  least  stain  or 
imputation  of  a  stain  on  his  faith.  "  If  we  lose  everything 
else,"  writes  he  on  a  trying  occasion  to  a  friend  who  was  not  so 
nice  in  this  particular,  "  we  will  at  least  keep  our  honor  un- 
blemished." It  reminds  one  of  the  pithy  epistle  of  a  kindred 
chivalrous  spirit,  Francis  I,  to  his  mother  from  the  unlucky  field 
of  Pavia :  ^'  Tout  est  perdu,  fors  Vhonneur."  Scott's  latter 
years  furnished  a  noble  commentary  on  the  sincerity  of  his 
manly  principles. 

Little  is  said  directly  of  his  religious  sentiments  in  the  bi- 
ography. They  seem  to  have  harmonized  well  with  his  politi- 
cal. He  was  a  member  of  the  English  Church,  a  stanch 
champion  of  established  forms,  and  a  sturdy  enemy  to  every- 
thing that  savored  of  the  sharp  twang  of  Puritanism.  On  this 
ground,  indeed,  the  youthful  Samson  used  to  wrestle  manfully 
with  worthy  Dominie  Mitchell,  who,  no  doubt,  furnished  many 
a  screed  of  doctrine  for  the  Rev.  Peter  Poundtext,  Master  Ne- 
hemiah  Holdenough,  and  other  lights  of  the  Covenant.  Scott 
was  no  friend  to  cant  under  any  form.  But,  whatever  were  his 
speculative  opinions,  in  practice  his  heart  overflowed  with  that 
charity  which  is  the  life-spring  of  our  religion.  And,  when- 
ever he  takes  occasion  to  allude  to  the  subject  directly,  he  testi- 
fies a  deep  reverence  for  the  truths  of  revelation  as  well  as  for 
its  divine  Original. 

Whatever  estimate  be  formed  of  Scott's  moral  qualities,  his 
intellectual  were  of  a  kind  which  well  entitled  him  to  the  epithet 
conferred  on  Lope  de  Vega,  "  monstruo  de  naturaleza"  "  a 
miracle  of  nature."  His  mind,  indeed,  did  not  seem  to  be  sub- 
jected to  the  same  laws  which  control  the  rest  of  his  species. 
His  memory,  as  is  usual,  was  the  first  of  his  powers  fully  de- 
veloped. While  an  urchin  at  school  he  could  repeat  whole 
cantos,  he  says,  of  Ossian  and  of  Spenser.  In  riper  years  we 
are  constantly  meeting  with  similar  feats  of  his  achievement. 
Thus  on  one  occasion  he  repeated  the  whole  of  a  poem  in  some 
penny  magazine  incidentally  alluded  to,  which  he  had  not  seen 
since  he  was  a  schoolboy.  On  another,  when  the  Ettrick  Shep- 
herd was  trying  ineffectually  to  fish  up  from  his  own  recollec- 
tions some  scraps  of  a  ballad  he  had  himself  manufactured  years 
before,  Scott  called  to  him,  "  Take  your  pencil,  Jenlmy,  and  I 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT  137 

will  tell  it  to  you  word  for  word  " ;  and  he  accordingly  did  so. 
But  it  is  needless  to  multiply  examples  of  feats  so  startling  as 
to  look  almost  like  the  tricks  of  a  conjurer. 

What  is  most  extraordinary  is,  that  while  he  acquired  with 
such  facility  that  the  bare  perusal  or  the  repetition  of  a  thing 
once  to  him  was  sufficient,  he  yet  retained  it  with  the  greatest 
pertinacity.  Other  men's  memories  are  so  much  jostled  in  the 
rough  and  tumble  of  life  that  most  of  the  facts  get  sifted  out 
nearly  as  fast  as  they  are  put  in;  so  that  we  are  in  the  same 
pickle  with  those  unlucky  daughters  of  Danaus,  of  schoolboy 
memory,  obliged  to  spend  the  greater  part  of  the  time  in  re- 
plenishing. But  Scott's  memory  seemed  to  be  hermetically 
sealed,  suffering  nothing  once  fairly  in  to  leak  out  again.  This 
was  of  immense  service  to  him  when  he  took  up  the  business  of 
authorship,  as  his  whole  multifarious  stock  of  facts,  whether 
from  books  or  observation,  became  in  truth  his  stock  in  trade, 
ready  furnished  to  his  hands.  This  may  explain  in  part,  though 
it  is  not  less  marvellous,  the  cause  of  his  rapid  execution  of 
works,  often  replete  with  rare  and  curious  information.  The 
labor,  the  preparation,  had  been  already  completed.  His  whole 
life  had  been  a  business  of  preparation.  When  he  ventured,  as 
in  the  case  of  "  Rokeby  "  and  of  *'  Quentin  Durward,"  on 
ground  with  which  he  had  not  been  familiar,  we  see  how  in- 
dustriously he  set  about  new  acquisitions. 

In  most  of  the  prodigies  of  memory  which  we  have  ever 
known  the  overgrowth  of  that  faculty  seems  to  have  been  at- 
tained at  the  expense  of  all  the  others.  But  in  Scott  the  directly 
opposite  power  of  the  imagination — the  inventive  power — was 
equally  strongly  developed,  and  at  the  same  early  age.  For  we 
find  him  renowned  for  story-craft  while  at  school.  How  many 
a  delightful  fiction,  indeed,  warm  with  the  flush  of  ingenuous 
youth,  did  he  not  throw  away  on  the  ears  of  thoughtless  child- 
hood which,  had  they  been  duly  registered,  might  now  have 
amused  children  of  a  larger  growth !  We  have  seen  Scott's 
genius  in  its  prime  and  its  decay.  The  frolic  graces  of  child- 
hood are  alone  wanting. 

The  facility  with  which  he  threw  his  ideas  into  language  was 
also  remarked  very  early.  One  of  his  first  ballads,  and  a  long 
one,  was  dashed  off  at  the  dinner-table.  His  "  Lay  "  was  writ- 
ten at  the  rate  of  a  canto  a  week.     "  Waverley,"  or  rather  the 


138  PRESCOTT 

last  two  volumes  of  it,  cost  the  evenings  of  a  summer  month. 
Who  that  has  ever  read  the  account  can  forget  the  movements 
of  that  mysterious  hand  as  descried  by  the  two  students  from 
the  window  of  a  neighboring  attic,  throwing  off  sheet  after 
sheet  with  untiring  rapidity  of  the  pages  destined  to  immor- 
tality? Scott  speaks  pleasantly  enough  of  this  marvellous  fa- 
cility in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Morritt:  "When  once  I  set  my 
pen  to  the  paper  it  will  walk  fast  enough.  I  am  sometimes 
tempted  to  leave  it  alone,  and  see  whether  it  will  not  write  as 
well  without  the  assistance  of  my  head  as  with  it.  A  hopeful 
prospect  for  the  reader." 

As  to  the  time  and  place  of  composition,  he  appears  to  have 
been  nearly  indifferent.  He  possessed  entire  power  of  abstrac- 
tion, and  it  mattered  little  whether  he  were  nailed  to  his  clerk's 
desk,  under  the  drowsy  eloquence  of  some  long-winded  barris- 
ter, or  dashing  his  horse  into  the  surf  on  Portobello  sands,  or 
rattling  in  a  post-chaise,  or  amid  the  hum  of  guests  in  his  over- 
flowing halls  at  Abbotsford — it  mattered  not,  the  same  well- 
adjusted  little  packet,  "  nicely  corded  and  sealed,"  was  sure  to 
be  ready  at  the  regular  time  for  the  Edinburgh  mail.  His  own 
account  of  his  composition,  to  a  friend  who  asked  when  he 
found  time  for  it,  is  striking  enough.  "  Oh,"  said  Scott,  "  I 
lie  simmering  over  things  for  an  hour  or  so  before  I  get  up — and 
there's  the  time  I  am  dressing  to  overhaul  my  half-sleeping  half- 
waking  projet  de  chapitre — and  when  I  get  the  paper  before 
me  it  commonly  runs  off  pretty  easily.  Besides,  I  often  take  a 
doze  in  the  plantations,  and,  while  Tom  marks  out  a  dike  or  a 
drain,  as  I  have  directed,  one's  fancy  may  be  running  its  ain 
riggs  in  some  other  world."  Never,  indeed,  did  this  sort  of 
simmering  produce  such  a  splendid  bill  of  fare. 

The  quality  of  the  material  under  such  circumstances  is,  in 
truth,  the  great  miracle  of  the  whole.  The  execution  of  so 
much  work  as  a  mere  feat  of  penmanship  would  undoubtedly 
be  very  extraordinary ;  but,  as  a  mere  scrivener's  miracle,  would 
be  hardly  worth  recording.  It  is  a  sort  of  miracle  that  is  every 
day  performing  under  our  own  eyes,  as  it  were,  by  Messrs. 
James,  Bulwer  &  Co.,  who,  in  all  the  various  staples  of  "  com- 
edy, history,  pastoral,  pastoral-comical,  historical-pastoral," 
etc.,  etc.,  supply  their  own  market  and  ours  too  with  all  that 
can  be  wanted.     In  Spain  and  in  Italy,  too,  we  may  find  abun- 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  139 

dance  of  improvvisatori  and  improvvisatrici,  who  perform  mira- 
cles of  the  same  sort  in  verse,  too,  in  languages  whose  vowel 
terminations  make  it  very  easy  for  the  thoughts  to  tumble  into 
rhyme  without  any  malice  prepense.  Governor  Raffles,  in  his 
account  of  Java,  tells  us  of  a  splendid  avenue  of  trees  before  his 
house,  which  in  the  course  of  a  year  shot  up  to  the.  height  of 
forty  feet.  But  who  shall  compare  the  brief,  transitory  splen- 
dors of  a  fungous  vegetation  with  the  mighty  monarch  of  the 
forest,  sending  his  roots  deep  into  the  heart  of  the  earth,  and 
his  branches,  amid  storm  and  sunshine,  to  the  heavens?  And 
is  not  the  latter  the  true  emblem  of  Scott  ?  For  who  can  doubt 
that  his  prose  creations,  at  least,  will  gather  strength  with  time, 
living  on  through  succeeding  generations,  even  when  the  lan- 
guage in  which  they  are  written,  like  those  of  Greece  and  Rome, 
shall  cease  to  be  a  living  language  ? 

The  only  writer  deserving  in  these  respects  to  be  named  with 
Scott  is  Lope  de  Vega,  who  in  his  own  day  held  as  high  a  rank 
in  the  republic  of  letters  as  our  great  contemporary.  The 
beautiful  dramas  which  he  threw  off  for  the  entertainment  of 
the  capital,  and  whose  success  drove  Cervantes  from  the  stage, 
outstripped  the  abilities  of  an  amanuensis  to  copy.  His  inti- 
mate friend  Montalvan,  one  of  the  most  popular  and  prolific 
authors  of  the  time,  tells  us  that  he  undertook  with  Lope  once 
to  supply  the  theatre  with  a  comedy — in  verse,  and  in  three  acts, 
as  the  Spanish  dramas  usually  were — at  a  very  short  notice.  In 
order  to  get  through  his  half  as  soon  as  his  partner,  he  rose  by 
two  in  the  morning,  and  at  eleven  had  completed  it ;  an  extra- 
ordinary feat,  certainly,  since  a  play  extended  to  between  thirty 
and  forty  pages,  of  a  hundred  lines  each.  Walking  into  the 
garden  he  found  his  brother  poet  pruning  an  orange-tree. 
"  Well,  how  do  you  get  on  ?  "  said  Montalvan.  "  Very  well," 
answered  Lope.  "  I  rose  betimes,  at  five ;  and,  after  I  had  got 
through,  ate  my  breakfast ;  since  which  I  have  written  a  letter 
of  fifty  triplets,  and  watered  the  whole  of  the  garden,  which  has 
tired  me  a  good  deal." 

But  a  little  arithmetic  will  best  show  the  comparative  fertility 
of  Scott  and  Lope  de  Vega.  It  is  so  germane  to  the  present 
matter  that  we  shall  make  no  apology  for  transcribing  here  some 
computations  from  a  former  article ;  and,  as  few  of  our  readers, 
we  suspect,  have  the  air-tight  memory  of  Sir  Walter,  we  doubt 


I40  PRESCOTT 

not  that  enough  of  it  has  escaped  them  by  this  time  to  excuse  us 
from  equipping  it  with  one  of  those  "  cocked  hats  and  walking- 
sticks  "  with  which  he  furbished  up  an  old  story : 

"  It  is  impossible  to  state  the  results  of  Lope  de  Vega's  labors  in 
any  form  that  will  not  powerfully  strike  the  imagination.  Thus,  he 
has  left  twenty-one  million  three  hundred  thousand  verses  in  print, 
besides  a  mass  of  manuscript.  He  furnished  the  theatre,  according 
to  the  statement  of  his  intimate  friend  Montalvan,  with  eighteen 
hundred  regular  plays  and  four  hundred  autos  or  religious  dramas 
— all  acted.  He  composed,  according  to  his  own  statement,  more 
than  one  hundred  comedies  in  the  almost  incredible  space  of  twenty- 
four  hours  each;  and  a  comedy  averaged  between  two  and  three 
thousand  verses,  great  part  of  them  rhymed  and  interspersed  with 
sonnets,  and  other  more  difficult  forms  of  versification.  He  lived 
seventy-two  years;  and  supposing  him  to  have  employed  fifty  of 
that  period  in  composition,  although  he  filled  a  variety  of  engrossing 
vocations  during  that  time,  he  must  have  averaged  a  play  a  week, 
to  say  nothing  of  twenty-one  volumes,  quarto,  of  miscellaneous  works, 
including  five  epics,  written  in  his  leisure  moments,  and  all  now 
in  print! 

"  The  only  achievements  we  can  recall  in  literary  history  bearing 
any  resemblance  to,  though  falling  far  short  of  this,  are  those  of  our 
illustrious  contemporary.  Sir  Walter  Scott.  The  complete  edition 
of  his  works,  recently  advertised  by  Murray,  with  the  addition  of 
two  volumes,  of  which  Murray  has  not  the  copyright,  probably  con- 
tains ninety  volumes,  small  octavo.  [To  these  should  further  be 
added  a  large  supply  of  matter  for  the  '  Edinburgh  Annual  Regis- 
ter, *  as  well  as  other  anonymous  contributions.]  Of  these,  forty- 
eight  volumes  of  novels  and  twenty-one  of  history  and  biography 
were  produced  between  1814  and  1831,  or  in  seventeen  years.  These 
would  give  an  average  of  four  volumes  a  year,  or  one  for  every  three 
months  during  the  whole  of  that  period,  to  which  must  be  added 
twenty-one  volumes  of  poetry  and  prose  previously  published.  The 
mere  mechanical  execution  of  so  much  work,  both  in  his  case  and 
Lope  de  Vega's,  would  seem  to  be  scarce  possible  in  the  limits 
assigned.^  Scott,  too,  was  as  variously  occupied  in  other  ways  as 
his  Spanish  rival;  and  probably,  from  the  social  hospitality  of  his 
life,  spent  a  much  larger  portion  of  his  time  in  no  literary  occupa- 
tion at  all." 

Of  all  the  wonderful  dramatic  creations  of  Lope  de  Vega's 
genius  what  now  remains  ?  Two  or  three  plays  only  keep  pos- 
session of  the  stage,  and  few,  very  few,  are  still  read  with  pleas- 
ure in  the  closet.  They  have  never  been  collected  into  a  uni- 
form edition,  and  are  now  met  with  in  scattered  sheets  only  on 
the  shelves  of  some  mousing  bookseller,  or  collected  in  miscel- 
laneous parcels  in  the  libraries  of  the  curious. 

Scott,  with  all  his  facility  of  execution,  had  none  of  that  piti- 
able affectation  sometimes  found  in  men  of  genius,  who  think 
that  the  possession  of  this  quality  may  dispense  with  regular, 
methodical  habits  of  study.     He  was  most  economical  of  time. 


Sir  WALTER  SCOTT  14! 

He  did  not,  like  Voltaire,  speak  of  it  as  "  a  terrible  thing  that 
so  much  time  should  be  wasted  in  talking."  He  was  too  little 
of  a  pedant  and  far  too  benevolent  not  to  feel  that  there  are 
other  objects  worth  living  for  than  mere  literary  fame.  But 
he  grudged  the  waste  of  time  on  merely  frivolous  and  heartless 
objects.  "  As  for  dressing  when  we  are  quite  alone,"  he  re- 
marked one  day  to  Mr.  Gillies,  whom  he  had  taken  home  with 
him  to  a  family  dinner,  "  it  is  out  of  the  question.  Life  is  not 
long  enough  for  such  fiddle-faddle."  In  the  early  part  of  his 
life  he  worked  late  at  night.  But  subsequently  from  a  convic- 
tion of  the  superior  healthiness  of  early  rising,  as  well  as  the 
desire  to  secure,  at  all  hazards,  a  portion  of  the  day  for  literary 
labor,  he  rose  at  five  the  year  round ;  no  small  effort,  as  anyone 
will  admit  who  has  seen  the  pain  and  difficulty  which  a  regular 
bird  of  night  finds  in  reconciling  his  eyes  to  daylight.  He  was 
scrupulously  exact,  moreover,  in  the  distribution  of  his  hours. 
In  one  of  his  letters  to  his  friend  Terry,  the  player,  replete,  as 
usual,  with  advice  that  seems  to  flow  equally  from  the  head  and 
the  heart,  he  says,  in  reference  to  the  practice  of  dawdling  away 
one's  time :  "  A  habit  of  the  mind  it  is  which  is  very  apt  to  beset 
men  of  intellect  and  talent,  especially  when  their  time  is  not  reg- 
ularly filled  up,  but  left  to  their  own  arrangement.  But  it  is 
like  the  ivy  round  the  oak,  and  ends  by  limiting,  if  it  does  not 
destroy,  the  power  of  manly  and  necessary  exertion.  I  must 
love  a  man  so  well  to  whom  I  offer  such  a  word  of  advice  that 
I  will  not  apologize  for  it,  but  expect  to  hear  you  are  become 
as  regular  as  a  Dutch  clock — hours,  quarters,  minutes,  all 
marked  and  appropriated."  With  the  same  emphasis  he  in- 
culcates the  like  habits  on  his  son.  If  any  man  might  dispense 
with  them  it  was  surely  Scott.  But  he  knew  that  without  them 
the  greatest  powers  of  mind  will  run  to  waste  and  water  but 
the  desert. 

Some  of  the  literary  opinions  of  Scott  are  singular,  consider- 
ing, too,  the  position  he  occupied  in  the  world  of  letters.  "  I 
promise  you,"  he  says  in  an  epistle  to  an  old  friend,  "  my  oaks 
will  outlast  my  laurels;  and  I  pique  myself  more  on  my  com- 
positions for  manure  than  on  any  other  compositions  to  which 
I  was  ever  accessary."  This  may  seem  badinage.  But  he  re- 
peatedly, both  in  writing  and  conversation,  places  literature,  as 
a  profession,  below  other  intellectual  professions,  and  especially 


142  PRESCOTT 

the  military.  The  Duke  of  WelHngton,  the  representative  of 
the  last,  seems  to  have  drawn  from  him  a  very  extraordinary  de- 
gree of  deference,  which,  we  cannot  but  think,  smacks  a  little 
of  that  strong  relish  for  gunpowder  which  he  avows  in  himself. 
It  is  not  very  easy  to  see  on  what  this  low  estimate  of  litera- 
ture rested.  As  a  profession,  it  has  too  little  in  common  with 
more  active  ones  to  afford  much  ground  for  running  a  parallel. 
The  soldier  has  to  do  with  externals ;  and  his  contests  and  tri- 
umphs are  over  matter,  in  its  various  forms,  whether  of  man  or 
material  nature.  The  poet  deals  with  the  bodiless  forms  of  air, 
of  fancy  lighter  than  air.  His  business  is  contemplative;  the 
other's  is  active,  and  depends  for  its  success  on  strong  moral 
energy  and  presence  of  mind.  He  must,  indeed,  have  genius 
of  the  highest  order  to  effect  his  own  combinations,  anticipate 
the  movements  of  his  enemy,  and  dart  with  eagle  eye  on  his 
vulnerable  point.  But  who  shall  say  that  this  practical  genius, 
if  we  may  so  term  it,  is  to  rank  higher  in  the  scale  than  the  cre- 
ative power  of  the  poet,  the  spark  from  the  mind  of  Divinity  it- 
self? 

The  orator  might  seem  to  afford  better  ground  for  compari- 
son, since,  though  his  theatre  of  action  is  abroad,  he  may  be 
said  to  work  with  much  the  same  tools  as  the  writer.  Yet,  how 
much  of  his  success  depends  on  qualities  other  than  intellectual ! 
"  Action,"  said  the  father  of  eloquence,  "  action,  action,  are  the 
three  most  essential  things  to  an  orator."  How  much,  indeed, 
depends  on  the  look,  the  gesture,  the  magical  tones  of  voice, 
modulated  to  the  passions  he  has  stirred ;  and  how  much  on  the 
contagious  sympathies  of  the  audience  itself,  which  drown  ev- 
erything like  critcism  in  the  overwhelming  tide  of  emotion !  If 
anyone  would  know  how  much,  let  him,  after  patiently  stand- 
ing 

"  till  his  feet  throb. 

And  his  head  thumps,  to  feed  upon  the  breath 

Of  patriots  bursting  with  heroic  rage," 

read  the  same  speech  in  the  columns  of  a  morning  newspaper, 
or  in  the  wdl-concocted  report  of  the  orator  himself.  The  pro- 
ductions of  the  writer  are  subjected  to  a  fiercer  ordeal.  He  has 
no  excited  sympathies  of  numbers  to  hurry  his  readers  along 
over  his  blunders.  He  is  scanned  in  the  calm  silence  of  the 
closet.     Every  flower  of  fancy  seems  here  to  wilt  under  the  rude 


SIR  WALTER  SCOTT  143 

breath  of  criticism ;  every  link  in  the  chain  of  argument  is  sub- 
jected to  the  touch  of  prying  scrutiny,  and  if  there  be  the  least 
flaw  in  it  it  is  sure  to  be  detected.  There  is  no  tribunal  so  stern 
as  the  secret  tribunal  of  a  man's  own  closet,  far  removed  from 
all  the  sympathetic  impulses  of  humanity.  Surely  there  is  no 
form  in  which  intellect  can  be  exhibited  to  the  world  so  com- 
pletely stripped  of  all  adventitious  aids  as  the  form  of  written 
composition.  But,  says  the  practical  man,  let  us  estimate  things 
by  their  utility.  "  You  talk  of  the  poems  of  Homer,"  said  a 
mathematician,  "  but  after  all  what  do  they  prove  ?  "  A  ques- 
tion which  involves  an  answer  somewhat  too  voluminous  for 
the  tail  of  an  article.  But,  if  the  poems  of  Homer  were,  as 
Heeren  asserts,  the  principal  bond  which  held  the  Grecian  States 
together,  and  gave  them  a  national  feeling,  they  "  prove  "  more 
than  all  the  arithmeticians  of  Greece — and  there  were  many 
cunning  ones  in  it — ever  did.  The  results  of  military  skill  are 
indeed  obvious.  The  soldier  by  a  single  victory  enlarges  the 
limits  of  an  empire;  he  may  do  more — he  may  achieve  the 
liberties  of  a  nation,  or  roll  back  the  tide  of  barbarism  ready  to 
overwhelm  them.  Wellington  was  placed  in  such  a  position,  and 
nobly  did  he  do  his  work — or,  rather,  he  was  placed  at  the  head 
of  such  a  gigantic  moral  and  physical  apparatus  as  enabled  him 
to  do  it.  With  his  own  unassisted  strength  of  course  he  could 
have  done  nothing.  But  it  is  on  his  own  solitary  resources  that 
the  great  writer  is  to  rely.  And  yet  who  shall  say  that  the  tri- 
umphs of  Wellington  have  been  greater  than  those  of  Scott — 
whose  works  are  familiar  as  household  words  to  every  fireside 
in  his  own  land,  from  the  castle  to  the  cottage;  have  crossed 
oceans  and  deserts,  and,  with  healing  on  their  wings,  found 
their  way  to  the  remotest  regions ;  have  helped  to  form  the  char- 
acter, until  his  own  mind  may  be  said  to  be  incorporated  into 
those  of  hundreds  of  thousands  of  his  fellow-men?  Who  is 
there  that  has  not,  at  some  time  or  other,  felt  the  heaviness  of 
his  heart  lightened,  his  pains  mitigated,  and  his  bright  mo- 
ments of  life  made  still  brighter  by  the  magical  touches  of  his 
genius?  And  shall  we  speak  of  his  victories  as  less  real,  less 
serviceable  to  humanity,  less  truly  glorious,  than  those  of  the 
greatest  captain  of  his  day  ?  The  triumphs  of  the  warrior  are 
bounded  by  the  narrow  theatre  of  his  own  age.  But  those  of  a 
Scott  or  a  Shakespeare  will  be  renewed,  with  greater  and  greater 


144  PRESCOTT 

lustre,  in  ages  yet  unborn,  when  the  victorious  chieftain  shall 
be  forgotten,  or  shall  live  only  in  the  song  of  the  minstrel  and 
the  page  of  the  chronicler. 

But,  after  all,  this  sort  of  parallel  is  not  very  gracious  nor 
very  philosophical ;  and,  to  say  truth,  is  somewhat  foolish.  We 
have  been  drawn  into  it  by  the  not  random,  but  very  deliberate, 
and  in  our  poor  judgment  very  disparaging  estimate  by  Scott 
of  his  own  vocation ;  and,  as  we  have  taken  the  trouble  to  write 
it,  our  readers  will  excuse  us  from  blotting  it  out.  There  is  too 
little  ground  for  the  respective  parties  to  stand  on  for  a  parallel. 
As  to  the  pedantic  cui  bono  standard,  it  is  impossible  to  tell  the 
final  issues  of  a  single  act ;  how  can  we  then  hope  to,  those  of 
a  course  of  action?  As  for  the  honor  of  different  vocations, 
there  never  was  a  truer  sentence  than  the  stale  one  of  Pope — 
stale  now  because  it  is  so  true — 

"  Act  well  your  part,  there  all  the  honor  lies." 

And  it  is  the  just  boast  of  our  own  country  that  in  no  civilized 
nation  is  the  force  of  this  philanthropic  maxim  so  nobly  illus- 
trated as  in  ours — thanks  to  our  glorious  institutions. 

A  great  cause,  probably,  of  Scott's  low  estimate  of  letters  was 
the  facility  with  which  he  wrote  himself.  What  costs  us  little 
we  are  apt  to  prize  little.  If  diamonds  were  as  common  as 
pebbles,  and  gold  dust  as  any  other,  who  would  stoop  to  gather 
them?  It  was  the  prostitution  of  his  muse,  by  the  by,  for  this 
same  gold  dust  which  brought  a  sharp  rebuke  on  the  poet  from 
Lord  Byron,  in  his  "  English  Bards  " — 

"  For  this  we  spurn  Apollo's  venal  son  "  ; 

a  coarse  cut,  and  the  imputation  about  as  true  as  most  satire — 
that  is,  not  true  at  all.  This  was  indited  in  his  Lordship's  ear- 
lier days,  when  he  most  chivalrously  disclaimed  all  purpose  of 
bartering  his  rhymes  for  gold.  He  lived  long  enough,  however, 
to  weigh  his  literary  wares  in  as  nice  a  money-balance  as  any 
more  vulgar  manufacturer  ever  did.  And,  in  truth,  it  would 
be  ridiculous  if  the  produce  of  the  brain  should  not  bring  its 
price,  in  this  form  as  well  as  any  other ;  there  is  little  danger, 
we  imagine,  of  finding  too  much  gold  in  the  bowels  of  Par- 
nassus. 

Scott  took  a  more  sensible  view  of  things.     In  a  letter  to 


SIR   WALTER   SCOTT  I45 

Ellis,  written  soon  after  the  publication  of  the  "  Minstrelsy,"  he 
observes :  "  People  may  say  this  and  that  of  the  pleasure  of  fame, 
or  of  profit,  as  a  motive  of  writing ;  I  think  the  only  pleasure  is 
in  the  actual  exertion  and  research,  and  I  would  no  more  write 
upon  any  other  terms  than  I  would  hunt  merely  to  dine  upon 
hare-soup.  At  the  same  time,  if  credit  and  profit  came  un- 
looked  for  I  would  no  more  quarrel  with  them  than  with  the 
soup."  Even  this  declaration  was  somewhat  more  magnani- 
mous than  was  warranted  by  his  subsequent  conduct.  The 
truth  is,  he  soon  found  out,  especially  after  the  Waverley  vein 
had  opened,  that  he  had  hit  on  a  gold  mine.  The  prodi^ous 
returns  he  got  gave  the  whole  thing  the  aspect  of  a  speculation. 
Every  new  work  was  an  adventure ;  and  the  proceeds  naturally 
suggested  the  indulgence  of  the  most  extravagant  schemes  of 
expense,  which,  in  their  turn,  stimulated  him  to  fresh  efforts. 
In  this  way  the  "  profits  "  became,  whatever  they  might  have 
been  once,  a  principal  incentive  to,  as  they  were  the  recompense 
of,  exertion.  His  productions  were  cash  articles,  and  were  esti- 
mated by  him  more  on  the  Hudibrastic  rule  of  "  the  real  worth 
of  a  thing  "  than  by  any  fanciful  standard  of  fame.  He  bowed 
with  deference  to  the  judgment  of  the  booksellers,  and  trimmed 
his  sails  dexterously  as  the  "  aura  popularis  "  shifted.  "  If  it 
is  na  weil  bobbit,"  he  writes  to  his  printer,  on  turning  out  a  less 
lucky  novel, "  we'll  bobb  it  again."  His  muse  was  of  that  school 
who  seek  the  greatest  happiness  of  the  greatest  possible  num- 
ber.    We  can  hardly  imagine  him  invoking  her,  like  Milton — 

"  Still  govern  thou  my  song, 
Urania,  and  fit  audience  find,  though  few." 

Still  less  can  we  imagine  him,  like  the  blind  old  bard,  feeding 
his  soul  with  visions  of  posthumous  glory,  and  spinning  out 
epics  for  five  pounds  apiece. 

It  is  singular  that  Scott,  although  he  set  as  high  a  money 
value  on  his  productions  as  the  most  enthusiastic  of  the  "  trade  " 
could  have  done,  in  a  literary  view,  should  have  held  them  so 
cheap.  "  Whatever  others  may  be,"  he  said,  "  I  have  never 
been  a  partisan  of  my  own  poetry ;  as  John  Wilkes  declared  that, 
*  in  the  height  of  his  success,  he  had  himself  never  been  a  Wilk- 
ite.'  "  Considering  the  poet's  popularity,  this  was  but  an  in- 
dififerent  compliment  to  the  taste  of  his  age.     With  all  this  .dis- 


146  PRESCOTT 

paragement  of  his  own  productions,  however,  Scott  was  not 
insensible  to  criticism.  He  says  somewhere,  indeed,  that  "  if  he 
had  been  conscious  of  a  single  vulnerable  point  in  himself,  he 
would  not  have  taken  up  the  business  of  writing."  But  on  an- 
other occasion  he  writes,  "  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  read  the 
attacks  made  upon  me."  And  Captain  Hall  remarks :  "He 
never  reads  the  criticisms  on  his  books ;  this  I  know,  from  the 
most  unquestionable  authority.  Praise,  he  says,  gives  him  no 
pleasure,  and  censure  annoys  him."  Madame  de  Graffigny 
says,  also,  of  Voltaire,  that  "  he  was  altogether  indifferent  to 
praise,  but  the  least  word  from  his  enemies  drove  him  crazy." 
Yet  both  these  authors  banqueted  on  the  sweets  of  panegyric 
as  much  as  any  who  ever  lived.  They  were  in  the  condition  of 
an  epicure,  whose  palate  has  lost  its  relish  for  the  dainty  fare 
in  which  it  has  been  so  long  revelling,  without  becoming  less 
sensible  to  the  annoyances  of  sharper  and  coarser  flavors.  It 
may  afford  some  consolation  to  humble  mediocrity,  to  the  less 
fortunate  votaries  of  the  muse,  that  those  who  have  reached  the 
summit  of  Parnassus  are  not  much  more  contented  with  their 
condition  than  those  who  are  scrambling  among  the  bushes  at 
the  bottom  of  the  mountain.  The  fact  seems  to  be,  as  Scott 
himself  intimates  more  than  once,  that  the  joy  is  in  the  chase, 
whether  in  the  prose  or  the  poetry  of  life. 

But  it  is  high  -time  to  terminate  our  lucubrations,  which,  how- 
ever imperfect  and  unsatisfactory,  have  already  run  to  a  length 
that  musftrespas?  on)  the  patience  of  the  reader.  We  rise  from 
the  perusal  of  these  delightful  volumes  with  the  same  sort  of 
melancholy  feeling.with  which  we  awake  from  a  pleasant  dream. 
The  concluding  volume,  of  which  such  ominous  presage  is  given 
in  the  last  sentence  of  the  fifth,  has  not  yet  reached  us ;  but  we 
know  enough  to  anticipate  the  sad  catastrophe  it  is  to  unfold  of 
the  drama.  In  those  which  we  have  seen,  however,  we  have 
beheld  a  succession  of  interesting  characters  come  upon  the 
scene — and  pass  away  to  their  long  home.  "  Bright  eyes  now 
closed  in  dust,  gay  voices  forever  silenced,"  seem  to  haunt  us, 
too,  as  we  write.  The  imagination  reverts  to  Abbotsford — ^the 
romantic  and  once  brilliant  Abbotsford — the  magical  creation 
of  his  hands.  We  see  its  halls,  radiant  with  the  hospitality  of 
his  benevolent  heart,  thronged  with  pilgrims  from  every  land, 
assembled  to  pay  homage  at  the  shrine  of  genius,  echoing  to  the 


SIR   WALTER  SCOTT  147 

blithe  music  of  those  festal  holidays  when  young  and  old  met 
to  renew  the  usages  of  the  good  old  times. 

"  These  were  its  charms — but  all  these  charms  are  fled." 

Its  courts  are  desolate,  or  trodden  only  by  the  foot  of  the 
stranger.  The  stranger  sits  under  the  shadows  of  the  trees 
which  his  hand  planted.  The  spell  of  the  enchanter  is  dis- 
solved. His  wand  is  broken.  And  the  mighty  minstrel  him- 
self now  sleeps  in  the  bosom  of  the  peaceful  scenes,  embellished 
by  his  taste  and  which  his  genius  has  made  immortal. 


THE     LAST    MOMENTS     OF     EMINENT 

MEN 


BY 


GEORGE    BANCROFT 


GEORGE  BANCROFT 
1800 — 1891 

George  Bancroft  was  born  at  Worcester,  Massachusetts,  in  1800,  and 
was  graduated  from  Harvard  at  the  age  of  seventeen.  With  his  gradu- 
ation, however,  his  education  was  only  begun.  During  the  next  five 
years  he  travelled  extensively  in  Europe,  and  studied  zealously  at  the 
Universities  of  Gottingen,  Berlin,  and  Heidelberg,  and  at  Paris,  meeting 
many  eminent  scholars  of  the  time  whose  friendship  he  enjoyed  through 
life.  His  studies  were  chiefly  devoted  to  the  languages  and  to  history. 
On  his  return  he  taught  for  a  year  in  Harvard  College,  and  later  he  held 
an  appointment  in  a  seminary  in  Massachusetts.  About  this  time  he 
had  some  thought  of  entering  public  life,  and  was  elected  to  the  legis- 
lature, but  at  the  age  of  thirty-five  he  decided  to  devote  his  life  to 
writing  a  history  of  his  country. 

The  first  volume  of  his  history  appeared  in  1834.  Four  years  later 
Bancroft  was  appointed  Collector  for  the  Port  of  Boston,  but  nothing 
was  permitted  to  interfere  seriously  with  the  great  work  he  had  under- 
taken. In  1844  he  was  an  unsuccessful  candidate  for  Governor  of  Mas- 
sachusetts, and  in  1845  became  Secretary  of  the  Navy  under  President 
Polk.  As  a  member  of  Polk's  Cabinet  he  established  the  Naval 
Academy  at  Annapolis.  The  following  year  he  was  appointed  Minister 
to  Great  Britain,  remaining  abroad  three  years.  These  duties  inter- 
rupted only  temporarily  the  progress  of  his  great  history.  The  third 
volume  appeared  in  1840;  twelve  years  later  Bancroft  completed  the 
fourth  and  fifth  volumes.  The  remaining  volumes  appeared  in  steady 
succession  at  intervals  of  from  two  to  four  years  down  to  1874,  when 
the  tenth  and  last  was  published.  The  work,  which  had  thus  taken 
no  less  than  forty  years  to  complete,  covered  the  history  of  the 
colonial  and  revolutionary  periods  only.  In  the  preparation  of  this  great 
work  Bancroft  ransacked  every  great  public  library  in  the  country,  be- 
sides examining  newspaper  files,  documents,  and  local  and  family  rec- 
ords innumerable.  His  high  public  position  gave  him  ready  access  to 
numerous  archives,  both  public  and  private,  that  would  have  been  sealed 
to  an  investigator  less  known  and  respected.  During  his  later  years 
Bancroft  wrote  a  "  History  of  the  Formation  of  the  Constitution  of  the 
United  States  "  in  two  volumes,  which  may  be  regarded  as  a  continua- 
tion of  his  greater  work.     He  died  at  Washington  in  1891. 

Bancroft's  literary  style,  while  lacking  the  brilliancy  of  Prescott's  or 
Motley's,  and  the  perfection  of  form  of  Parkman's,  possesses  none  the 
less  high  merit  of  its  own.  It  is  clear  and  forcible,  thoroughly  dignified 
and  convincing.  That  his  works  have  not  achieved  a  wider  popularity  is 
due  more  to  their  voluminousness  than  to  any  defect  in  the  style  of 
their  composition.  The  essay  on  "  The  Last  Moments  of  Eminent 
Men  "  shows  Bancroft  in  one  of  his  best  moods.  He  wrote  very  little 
except  on  historical  subjects;  in  fact  it  was  his  sole  aim  to  write  a 
worthy  history  of  his  country,  and  his  later  years  were  spent  in  re- 
vising what  he  had  already  written  rather  than  in  attempting  new 
work.  Bancroft's  one  great  work  is  his  "  History,"  a  lofty  and  endur- 
ing monument. 


150 


THE   LAST  MOMENTS   OF  EMINENT  MEN 

LIFE,"  says  Sir  William  Temple,  "is  like  wine;  he 
who  would  drink  it  pure  must  not  drain  it  to  the 
dregs."  "  I  do  not  wish,"  Byron  would  say,  "  to 
live  to  become  old."  The  expression  of  the  ancient  poet, 
"  that  to  die  young  is  a  boon  of  Heaven  to  its  favorites,"  was 
repeatedly  quoted  by  him  with  approbation.  The  certainty 
of  a  speedy  release  he  would  call  the  only  relief  against  bur- 
dens which  could  not  be  borne  were  they  not  of  very  limited 
duration. 

But  the  general  sentiment  of  mankind  declares  length  of 
days  to  be  desirable.  After  an  active  and  successful  career  the 
repose  of  decHne  is  serene  and  cheerful.  By  common  consent 
gray  hairs  are  a  crown  of  glory ;  the  only  object  of  respect  that 
can  never  excite  envy.  The  hour  of  evening  is  not  necessarily 
overcast ;  and  the  aged  man,  exchanging  the  pursuits  of  ambi- 
tion for  the  quiet  of  observation,  the  strife  of  public  discussion 
for  the  diffuse  but  instructive  language  of  experience,  passes 
to  the  grave  amid  grateful  recollections  and  the  tranquil  enjoy- 
ment of  satisfied  desires. 

The  happy,  it  is  agreed  by  all,  are  afraid  to  contemplate  their 
end ;  the  unhappy,  it  has  been  said,  look  forward  to  it  as  a 
release  from  suffering.  "  I  think  of  death  often,"  said  a  distin- 
guished but  dissatisfied  man ;  "  and  I  view  it  as  a  refuge. 
There  is  something  calm  and  soothing  to  me  in  the  thought ; 
and  the  only  time  that  I  feel  repugnance  to  it  is  on  a  fine  day,^ 
in  solitude,  in  a  beautiful  country,  when  all  nature  seems  rejoic- 
ing in  light  and  life." 

This  is  the  language  of  self-delusion.  Numerous  as  may  be 
the  causes  for  disgust  with  life,  its  close  is  never  contemplated 
with  carelessness.  Religion  may  elevate  the  soul  to  a  sublime 
reliance  on  a  future  existence ;   nothing  else  can  do  it.    The 

151 


152 


BANCROFT 


love  of  honor  may  brave  danger;  the  passion  of  melancholy 
may  indulge  an  aversion  to  continued  being ;  philosophy  may 
take  its  last  rest  with  composure ;  the  sense  of  shame  may  con- 
duct to  fortitude;  yet  they  who  would  disregard  the  grave 
must  turn  their  thoughts  from  the  consideration  of  its  terrors. 
It  is  an  impulse  of  nature  to  strive  to  preserve  our  being ;  and 
the  longing  cannot  be  eradicated.  The  mind  may  shun  the 
contemplation  of  horrors ;  it  may  fortify  itself  by  refusing  to 
observe  the  nearness  or  the  extent  of  the  impending  evil ;  but 
the  instinct  of  life  is  stubborn ;  and  he  who  looks  directly  at  its 
termination  and  professes  indifference  is  a  hypocrite  or  is  self- 
deceived.  He  that  calls  boldly  upon  Death  is  sure  to  be  dis- 
mayed on  finding  him  near.  The  oldest  are  never  so  old,  but 
they  desire  life  for  one  day  longer;  the  child  looks  to  its 
parents  as  if  to  discern  a  glimpse  of  hope ;  even  the  infant,  as 
it  exhales  its  breath,  springs  from  its  pillow  to  meet  its  mother 
as  if  there  were  help  where  there  is  love. 

"^  There  is  a  story  told  of  one  of  the  favorite  marshals  of  Na- 
poleon, who,  in  a  battle  in  the  south  of  Germany,  was  struck  by 
a  cannon-ball,  and  so  severely  wounded  that  there  was  no  pos- 
sibility of  a  respite.  Summoning  the  surgeon,  he  ordered  his 
wounds  to  be  dressed ;  and,  when  aid  was  declared  to  be  un- 
availing, the  dying  officer  clamorously  demanded  that  Napo- 
leon should  be  sent  for,  as  one  who  had  power  to  stop  the 
effusion  of  blood,  and  awe  nature  itself  into  submission.  Life 
expired  amid  maledictions  and  threats  heaped  upon  the  inno- 
cent surgeon.  This  foolish  frenzy  may  have  appeared  like 
blasphemy  ;  it  was  but  the  uncontrolled  outbreak  of  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation,  in  a  rough  and  undisciplined  mind. 

Even  in  men  of  strong  religious  convictions  the  end  is  not 
always  met  with  serenity;  and  the  preacher  and  philosopher 
sometimes  express  an  apprehension  which  cannot  be  pacified. 
The  celebrated  British  moralist,  Samuel  Johnson,  was  the  in- 
structor of  his  age ;  his  works  are  full  of  the  austere  lessons  of 
reflecting  wisdom.  It  might  have  been  supposed  that  religion 
would  have  reconciled  him  to  the  decree  of  Providence;  that 
philosophy  would  have  taught  him  to  acquiesce  in  a  necessary 
issue ;  that  science  would  have  inspired  him  with  confidence 
in  the  skill  of  his  medical  attendants.  And  yet  it  was  not  so. 
A  sullen  gloom  overclouded  his  faculties ;   he  could  not  sum- 


THE   LAST   MOMENTS  OF  EMINENT  MEN 


153 


mon  resolution  to  tranquillize  his  emotions;  and,  in  the  ab- 
sence of  his  attendants,  he  gashed  himself  with  ghastly  and  de- 
bilitating wounds,  as  if  the  blind  lacerations  of  his  misguided 
arm  could  prolong  the  moments  of  an  existence  which  the  best 
physicians  of  London  declared  to  be  numbered. 

"  Is  there  anything  on  earth  I  can  do  for  you  ?  "  said  Taylor 
to  Wolcott,  known  as  Peter  Pindar,  as  he  lay  on  his  death-bed. 
"  Give  me  back  my  youth,"  were  the  last  words  of  the  satirical 
buffoon. 

If  Johnson  could  hope  for  relief  from  self-inflicted  wounds, 
if  the  poet  could  prefer  to  his  friend  the  useless  prayer  for  a 
restoration  of  youth,  we  may  readily  believe  what  historians 
relate  to  us  of  the  end  of  Louis  XI  of  France,  a  monarch  who 
was  not  destitute  of  eminent  qualities  as  well  as  repulsive  vices  ; 
possessing  courage,  a  knowledge  of  men  and  of  business,  an 
indomitable  will,  a  disposition  favorable  to  the  administration 
of  justice  among  his  subjects ;  viewing  impunity  in  wrong  as 
exclusively  a  royal  prerogative.  Remorse,  fear,  a  conscious- 
ness of  being  detected,  disgust  with  life  and  horror  of  death — 
these  were  the  sentiments  which  troubled  the  sick-couch  of  the 
absolute  king.  The  first  of  his  line  who  bore  the  epithet  of  "  the 
most  Christian,"  he  was  so  abandoned  to  egotism  that  he  al- 
lowed the  veins  of  children  to  be  opened,  and  greedily  drank 
their  blood  ;  believing,  with  physicians  of  that  day,  that  it  would 
renovate  his  youth,  or  at  least  check  the  decay  of  nature.  The 
cruelty  was  useless.  At  last,  feeling  the  approach  of  death  to  be 
certain,  he  sent  for  an  anchorite  from  Calabria,  since  revered  as 
St.  Francis  de  Paula ;  and,  when  the  hermit  arrived,  the  mon- 
arch of  France  entreated  him  to  spare  his  life.  He  threw  him- 
self at  the  feet  of  the  man  who  was  believed  to  derive  heaHng 
virtues  from  the  sanctity  of  his  character ;  he  begged  the  inter- 
cession of  his  prayers ;  he  wept,  he  supplicated,  he  hoped  that 
the  voice  of  a  Calabrian  monk  would  reverse  the  order  of  nat- 
ure, and  successfully  plead  for  his  respite. 
'  We  find  the  love  of  life  still  more  strongly  acknowledged  by 
an  English  poet,  who,  after  describing  our  being  as  the  dream 
of  a  shadow,  "  a  weak-built  isthmus  between  two  eternities,  so 
frail  that  it  can  sustain  neither  wind  nor  wave,"  yet  avows  his 
preference  of  a  few  days',  nay,  of  a  few  hours'  longer  residence 
upon  earth,  to  all  the  fame  which  poetry  can  achieve. 


154  BANCROFT 

"  Fain  would  I  see  that  prodigal, 
Who  his  to-morrow  would  bestow, 
For  all  old  Homer's  life,  e'er  since  he  died,  till  now." 

We  do  not  believe  the  poet  sincere,  for  one  passion  may  pre- 
vail over  another,  and  in  many  a  breast  the  love  of  fame  is  at 
times,  if  not  always,  the  strongest.  But  if  those  who  pass  their 
lives  in  a  struggle  for  glory  may  desire  the  attainment  of  their 
object  at  any  price,  the  competitors  for  political  power  are  apt 
to  cling  fast  to  the  scene  of  their  rivalry.  Lord  Castlereagh 
could  indeed  commit  suicide ;  but  it  was  not  from  disgust ;  his 
mind  dwelt  on  the  precarious  condition  of  his  own  elevation, 
and  the  unsuccessful  policy  in  which  he  had  involved  his  coun- 
try. He  did  not  love  death;  he  did  not  contemplate  it  with 
indifference ;  he  failed  to  observe  its  terrors,  because  his  atten- 
tion was  absorbed  by  apprehensions  which  pressed  themselves 
upon  him  with  unrelenting  force. 

The  ship  of  the  Marquis  of  Badajoz,  Viceroy  of  Peru,  was  set 
on  fire  by  Captain  Stayner.  The  marchioness,  and  her  daugh- 
ter, who  was  betrothed  to  the  Duke  of  Medina-Celi,  swooned 
in  the  flames,  and  could  not  be  rescued.  The  marquis  resigned 
himself  also  to  die,  rather  than  survive  with  the  memory  of  such 
horrors.  It  was  not  that  he  was  careless  of  life ;  the  natural 
feelings  remained  unchanged ;  the  love  of  grandeur,  the  pride 
of  opulence  and  dominion;  but  he  preferred  death,  because 
that  was  out  of  sight,  and  would  rescue  him  from  the  presence 
of  absorbing  and  intolerable  sorrows. 

Madame  de  Sevigne,  in  her  charming  letters,  gives  the  true 
sensations  of  the  ambitious  man  when  suddenly  called  to  leave 
the  scenes  of  his  efforts  and  his  triumphs.  Rumor,  with  its 
wonted  credulity,  ascribed  to  Louvois,  the  powerful  minister  of 
Louis  XIV,  the  crime  of  suicide.  His  death  was  sudden,  but 
not  by  his  own  arm ;  he  fell  a  victim,  if  not  to  disease,  to  the 
revenge  of  a  woman.  In  a  night  the  most  energetic,  reckless 
statesman  in  Europe,  passionately  fond  of  place,  extending  his 
influence  to  every  cabinet,  and  embracing  in  his  views  the  des- 
tiny of  continents,  was  called  away.  How  much  business  was 
arrested  in  progress !  how  many  projects  defeated !  how  many 
secrets  buried  in  the  silence  of  the  grave !  Who  should  disen- 
tangle the  interests  which  his  policy  had  rendered  complicate  ? 
Who  should  terminate  the  wars  which  he  had  begun  ?    Who 


THE   LAST   MOMENTS   OF   EMINENT   MEN 


155 


should  follow  up  the  blows  which  he  had  aimed  ?  Well  might 
he  have  exclaimed  to  the  angel  of  death :  "  Ah,  grant  me  a 
short  reprieve ;  spare  me  till  I  can  check  the  Duke  of  Savoy ; 
checkmate  the  Prince  of  Orange !  " — "  No !  no !  You  shall  not 
have  a  single,  single  minute."  Death  is  as  inexorable  to  the 
prayer  of  ambition  as  to  the  entreaty  of  despair.  The  ruins  of 
the  Palatinate,  the  wrongs  of  the  Huguenots,  were  to  be 
avenged ;  and  Louvois,  Hke  Louis  XI  and  like  the  rest  of  man- 
kind, was  to  learn  that  the  passion  for  Hfe,  whether  expressed 
in  the  language  of  superstition,  of  abject  despondency,  or  of  the 
desire  of  continued  power,  could  not  prolong  existence  for  a 
moment. 

But,  though  the  love  of  life  may  be  declared  a  universal  in- 
stinct, it  does  not  follow  that  death  is  usually  met  with  abject- 
ness.  It  belongs  to  virtue  and  to  manliness  to  accept  the  in- 
evitable decree  with  firmness.  It  is  often  sought  voluntarily, 
but  even  then  the  latent  passion  is  discernible.  A  sense  of 
shame,  a  desire  of  plunder,  a  hope  of  emolument — these,  not 
less  than  a  sense  of  duty,  are  motives  sufficient  to  influence  men 
to  defy  all  danger;  yet  the  feeling  tor  self-preservation  does 
not  cease  to  exert  its  power.  The  common  hireling  soldier  con- 
tracts to  expose  himself  to  the  deadly  j&re  of  a  'hostile  army 
whenever  his  employers  may  command  it ;  he  does  it,  in  a  con- 
troversy of  which  he  knows  not  the  merits,  for  a  party  to  which 
he  is  essentially  indifferent,  for  purposes  which,  perhaps,  if  his 
mind  were  enlightened,  he  would  labor  to  counteract.  The  life 
of  the  soldier  is  a  life  of  contrast ;  of  labor  and  idleness ;  it  is  a 
course  of  routine,  easy  to  be  endured,  and  leading  only  at 
intervals  to  exposure.  The  love  of  ease,  the  certainty  of  obtain- 
ing the  means  of  existence,  the  remoteness  of  peril,  conspire  to 
tempt  adventurers,  and  the  armies  of  Europe  have  never  suf- 
fered from  any  other  limit  than  the  wants  of  the  treasury.  But 
the  same  soldier  would  fly  precipitately  from  any  hazard  which 
he  had  not  bargained  to  encounter.  The  merchant  will  visit 
the  deadliest  climates  in  pursuit  of  gain ;  he  will  pass  over 
regions  where  the  air  is  known  to  be  corrupt,  and  disease  to 
have  anchored  itself  in  the  hot,  heavy  atmosphere.  And  this 
he  will  attempt  repeatedly,  and  with  firmness,  in  defiance  of  the 
crowds  of  corpses  which  he  may  see  carried  by  wagon-loads 
to  the  graveyards.     But  the  same  merchant  would  be  struck 


156  BANCROFT 

by  panic  and  desert  his  own  residence  in  a  more  favored  clime, 
should  it  be  invaded  by  epidemic  disease.  He  who  would  fear- 
lessly meet  the  worst  forms  of  a  storm  at  sea,  and  take  his 
chance  of  escaping  the  fever  as  he  passed  through  New  Orleans, 
would  shun  New  York  in  the  season  of  the  cholera,  and  shrink 
from  any  danger  which  was  novel  and  unexpected.  The  wid- 
ows of  India  ascend  the  funeral-pile  with  a  fortitude  which  man 
could  never  display,  and  emulously  yield  up  their  lives  to  a  bar- 
barous usage  which,  if  men  had  been  called  upon  to  endure  it, 
would  never  have  been  perpetuated.  Yet  is  it  to  be  supposed 
that  these  unhappy  victims  are  indifferent  to  the  charms  of 
existence,  or  blind  to  the  terrors  of  its  extinction  ?  Calmly  as 
they  may  lay  themselves  upon  the  pyre,  they  would  beg  for 
mercy  were  their  execution  to  be  demanded  in  any  other  way ; 
they  would  confess  their  fear  were  it  not  that  love  and  honor 
and  custom  confirm  their  doom. 

No  class  of  men  in  the  regular  discharge  of  duty  incur  danger 
more  frequently  than  the  honest  physician.  There  is  no  type  of 
malignant  maladies  with  which  he  fails  to  become  acquainted, 
no  hospital  so  crowded  with  contagion  that  he  dares  not  walk 
freely  through  its  wards.  His  vocation  is  among  the  sick  and 
the  dying ;  he  is  the  familiar  friend  of  those  who  are  sinking 
under  infectious  disease ;  and  he  never  shrinks  from  the  horror 
of  observing  it  under  all  its  aspects.  He  must  do  so  with  equa- 
nimity; as  he  inhales  the  poisoned  atmosphere  he  must  coolly 
reflect  on  the  medicines  which  may  mitigate  the  sufferings  that 
he  cannot  remedy.  Nay,  after  death  has  ensued,  he  must 
search  with  the  dissecting-knife  for  its  hidden  cause,  if  so  by 
multiplying  his  own  perils  he  may  discover  some  alleviation 
for  the  afflictions  of  others.  And  why  is  this  ?  Because  the  phy- 
sician is  indifferent  to  death  ?  Because  he  is  steeled  and  hard- 
ened against  the  fear  of  it  ?  Because  he  despises  or  pretends  to 
despise  it  ?  By  no  means.  It  is  his  especial  business  to  value 
life,  to  cherish  the  least  spark  of  animated  existence.  And  the 
habit  of  caring  for  the  lives  of  his  fellow-men  is  far  from  leading 
him  to  an  habitual  indifference  to  his  own.  The  physician 
shuns  every  danger  but  such  as  the  glory  of  his  profession  com- 
mands him  to  defy. 

Thus  we  are  led  to  explain  the  anomaly  of  suicide,  and  recon- 
cile the  apparent  contradiction  of  a  terror  of  death,  which  is  yet 


THE   LAST   MOMENTS  OF  EMINENT   MEN  157       *    [ 

voluntarily  encountered.     It  may  seem  a  paradox;    but  the  .■ 

dread  of  dying  has  itself  sometimes  prompted  suicide,  and  the  I 

man  who  seeks  to  destroy  himself  at  the  very  moment  of  per-  ] 

petrating  his  crime  betrays  the  passion  for  life.    Menace  him  1 

with  death  under  a  different  form  from  that  which  he  has  i 

chosen,  and,  like  other  men,  he  will  get  out  of  its  way.    He  will 
defend  himself  against  the  assassin,  though  he  might  be  ready  1 

to  cut  his  own  throat ;  he  will,  if  at  sea,  and  the  ship  were  sink-  i 

ing  in  a  storm,  labor  with  his  whole  strength  to  save  it  from  ] 

going  down,  even  if  he  had  formed  the  design  to  leap  into  the  1 

ocean  in  the  first  moment  of  a  calm.    Place  him  in  the  van  of  an  ] 

army,  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that  he  will  not  prove  a  coward ;  "  ,    ' 
tell  him  the  cholera  is  about  to  rage,  and  he  will  deluge  him-  \ 

self  with  preventive  remedies ;  send  him  to  a  house  visited  with  i 

yellow  fever,  and  he  will  steep  himself  in  vinegar  and  carry  with  \ 

him  an  atmosphere  of  camphor.    It  is  only  under  the  one  form, 
which  the  mind  in  some  insane  excitement  may  have  chosen,  '; 

that  he  preserves  the  desire  to  leave  the  world. 

It  will  not  be  difficult,  then,  to  set  a  right  value  on  the 
declaration  of  those  who  profess  to  regard  death  not  with  indif 
ference  merely,  but  with  contempt.  It  is  pure  affectation,  or  the 
indulgence  of  a  vulgar  levity ;  and  must  excite  either  compas- 
sion or  disgust,  according  as  it  is  marked  by  the  spirit  of  fiend- 
ish scoffing  or  of  human  vanity  and  self-deception.  A  French 
moralist  tells  us  of  a  valet  who  danced  merrily  on  the  scaffold, 
where  he  was  to  be  broken  on  the  wheel.  A  New  England 
woman,  belonging  to  a  family  which  esteemed  itself  one  of  the 
first,  was  convicted  of  aiding  her  paramour  to  kill  her  husband. 
She  was  a  complete  sensualist,  one  to  whom  life  was  everything, 
and  the  loss  of  it  the  total  shipwreck  of  everything.  On  her 
way  to  the  place  of  execution  she  was  accompanied  by  a  clergy- 
man of  no  very  great  ability ;  and  all  along  the  road,  with  the 
gallows  in  plain  sight,  she  amused  herself  in  teasing  the  good 
man,  whose  wits  were  no  match  for  her  raillery.  He  had  been 
buying  a  new  chaise,  quite  an  event  in  the  life  of  a  humble  coun- 
try pastor,  and  when  he  spoke  of  the  next  world  she  would 
amuse  herself  in  praising  his  purchase.  If  he  deplored  her 
fate  and  her  prospects,  she  would  grieve  at  his  exposure  to  the 
inclement  weather,  and  laughed  and  chatted  as  if  she  had  been 
driving  to  a  wedding  and  not  to  her  own  funeral.    And  why  was 


tj^ 


4-' 


158  BANCROFT 

this  ?  Because  death  was  not  feared  ?  No ;  but  because  death 
was  feared,  and  feared  intensely.  The  Eastern  women,  who  are 
burned  ahve  with  their  deceased  husbands,  often  utter  shrieks 
that  would  pierce  the  hearers  to  the  soul;  and,  to  prevent  a 
compassion  which  would  endanger  the  reign  of  superstition, 
the  priests,  with  drums  and  cymbals,  drown  the  terrific  cries  of 
their  victims.  So  it  is  with  those  who  go  to  the  court  of  the 
King  of  Terrors  with  merriment  on  their  lips.  They  dread  his 
presence,  and  they  seek  to  drown  the  noise  of  his  approaching 
footsteps  by  the  sound  of  their  own  ribaldry.  If  the  scaffold 
often  rings  with  a  jest,  it  is  because  the  mind  shrinks  from  the 
solemnity  of  the  impending  change. 

Perhaps  the  most  common  device  for  averting  contemplation 
from  death  itself  is,  in  directing  it  to  the  manner  of  dying. 
Vanitas  vanitatum!  Vanity  does  not  give  up  its  hold  on  the 
last  hour.  Men  wish  to  die  with  distinction,  to  be  buried  in 
state ;  and  the  last  thoughts  are  employed  on  the  decorum  of 
the  moment,  or  in  the  anticipation  of  funeral  splendors.  It 
was  no  uncommon  thing  among  the  Romans  for  a  rich  man  to 
appoint  an  heir  on  condition  that  his  obsequies  should  be  cele- 
brated with  costly  pomp.  "  When  I  am  dead,"  said  an  Indian 
chief,  who  fell  into  his  last  sleep  at  Washington — "  when  I  am 
dead  let  the  big  guns  be  fired  over  me."  The  words  were 
thought  worthy  of  being  engraved  on  his  tomb ;  but  they  are 
no  more  than  a  plain  expression  of  a  very  common  passion ; 
the  same  which  leads  the  humblest  to  desire  that  at  least  a  stone 
may  be  placed  at  the  head  of  his  grave,  and  demands  the  erec- 
tion of  splendid  mausoleums  and  costly  tombs  for  the  mistaken 
men — ■ 

"  Who  by  the  proofs  of  death  pretend  to  live." 

Among  the  ancients,  an  opulent  man,  while  yet  in  health, 
would  order  his  own  sarcophagus ;  and  nowadays  the  wealthy 
sometimes  build  their  own  tombs,  for  the  sake  of  securing  a 
satisfactory  monument.  A  vain  man,  who  had  done  this  at 
a  great  expense,  showed  his  motive  so  plainly  that  his  neigh- 
bors laughed  with  the  sexton  of  the  parish,  who  wished  that 
the  builder  might  not  be  kept  long  out  of  the  interest  of  his 
money. 

But  it  is  not  merely  in  the  decorations  of  the  grave  that  vanity 


THE   LAST   MOMENTS   OF   EMINENT   MEN 


159 


is  displayed.  Saladin,  in  his  last  illness,  instead  of  his  usual 
standard,  ordered  his  shroud  to  be  uplifted  in  front  of  his  tent ; 
and  the  herald,  who  hung  out  this  winding-sheet  as  a  flag,  was 
commanded  to  exclaim  aloud :  "  Behold !  this  is  all  which 
Saladin,  the  vanquisher  of  the  East,  carries  away  of  all  his  con- 
quests." He  was  wrong  there.  He  came  naked  into  the  world, 
and  he  left  it  naked.  Grave-clothes  were  a  superfluous  luxury, 
and,  to  the  person  receiving  them,  as  barren  of  comfort  as  his 
sceptre  or  his  scimitar.  Saladin  was  vain.  He  sought  in  dying 
to  contrast  the  power  he  had  enjoyed  with  the  feebleness  of  his 
condition ;  to  pass  from  the  world  in  a  striking  antithesis ;  to 
make  his  death-scene  an  epigram.    All  was  vanity. 

A  century  ago  it  was  the  fashion  for  culprits  to  appear  on 
the  scaffold  in  the  dress  of  dandies.  Some  centuries  before  it 
was  the  privilege  of  noblemen,  if  they  merited  hanging,  to  es- 
cape the  gallows  and  perish  on  the  block.  The  Syrian  priests 
had  foretold  to  the  Emperor  Heliogabalus  that  he  would  be 
reduced  to  the  necessity  of  committing  suicide ;  believing  them 
true  prophets,  he  kept  in  readiness  silken  cords  and  a  sword  of 
gold.  Admirable  privilege  of  the  nobility,  to»be  beheaded  in- 
stead of  hanged !  Enviable  prerogative  of  imperial  dignity,  to 
be  strangled  with  a  knot  of  silk  or  to  be  assassinated  with  a 
golden  sword ! 

"  *  Odious!  in  woollen!  'twould  a  saint  provoke* 
(Were  the  last  words  that  poor  Narcissa  spoke). 
*  No,  let  a  charming  chintz  and  Brussels  lace 
Wrap  my  cold  limbs  and  shade  my  lifeless  face; 
One  would  not  sure  be  frightful  when  one's  dead, 
And — Betty — give  this  cheek  a  little  red.'  " 

The  example  chosen  by  the  poet  extended  to  appearances 
after  death  ;  for  the  presence  of  the  same  weakness  in  the  hour 
of  mortality  we  must  look  to  the  precincts  of  courts,  where  folly 
used  to  reign  by  prescriptive  right ;  where  caprice  gives  law 
and  pleasures  consume  life.  There  you  may  witness  the  harlot's 
euthanasia.  The  French  court  was  at  Choisy  when  Madame 
de  Pompadour  felt  the  pangs  of  a  fatal  malady.  It  had  been  the 
established  etiquette  that  none  but  princes  and  persons  of  royal 
blood  should  breathe  their  last  in  Versailles.  Proclaim  to  the 
gay  circles  of  Paris  that  a  thing  new  and  unheard-of  is  to  be 
permitted!     Announce  to  the  world  that  the  rules  of  palace 


i6o  BANCROFT 

propriety  and  Bourbon  decorum  are  to  be  broken !  that  the 
chambers  where  vice  had  fearlessly  lived  and  laughed,  but  never 
been  permitted  to  expire,  were  to  admit  the  novel  spectacle  of 
the  King's  favorite  mistress  struggling  with  death ! 

The  marchioness  questioned  the  physicians  firmly ;  she  per- 
ceived their  hesitation ;  she  saw  the  hand  that  beckoned  her 
away ;  and  she  determined,  says  the  historian,  to  depart  in  the 
pomp  of  a  queen.  Louis  XV,  himself  not  capable  of  a  strong 
emotion,  was  yet  willing  to  concede  to  his  dying  friend  the  con- 
solation which  she  coveted,  the  opportunity  to  reign  till  her 
parting  gasp.  The  courtiers  thronged  round  the  death-bed  of 
a  woman  who  distributed  favors  with  the  last  exhalations  of  her 
breath  ;  and  the  King  hurried  to  name  to  public  offices  the  per- 
sons whom  her  faltering  accents  recommended.  Her  sick- 
room became  a  scene  of  state ;  the  princes  and  grandees  still 
entered  to  pay  their  homage  to  the  woman  whose  power  did  not 
yield  to  mortal  disease,  and  were  surprised  to  find  her  richly 
attired.  The  traces  of  death  in  her  countenance  were  concealed 
by  rouge.  She  reclined  on  a  splendid  couch;  questions  of 
public  policy  were  discussed  by  ministers  in  her  presence ;  she 
gloried  in  holding  to  the  end  the  reins  of  the  kingdom  in  her 
hands.  Even  a  sycophant  clergy  showed  respect  to  the  expir- 
ing favorite,  and  felt  no  shame  at  sanctioning  with  their  fre- 
quent visits  the  vices  of  a  woman  who  had  entered  the  palace 
only  as  an  adulteress.  Having  compHed  with  the  rites  of  the 
Roman  Church,  she  next  sought  the  approbation  of  the  philos- 
ophers. She  lisped  no  word  of  penitence ;  she  shed  no  tears 
of  regret.  The  curate  left  her  as  she  was  in  the  agony.  "  Wait 
a  moment,'*  said  she ;  "  we  will  leave  the  house  together." 

The  dying  mistress  was  worshipped  while  she  breathed; 
hardly  was  she  dead  when  the  scene  changed :  two  domestics 
carried  out  her  body  on  a  hand-barrow  from  the  palace  to  her 
private  home.  The  King  stood  at  the  window  looking  at  the 
clouds  as  her  remains  were  carried  by.  "  The  marchioness," 
said  he,  "  will  have  bad  weather  on  her  journey." 

The  flickering  lamp  blazes  with  unusual  brightness  just  as  it 
goes  out.  "  The  fit  gives  vigor,  as  it  destroys."  He  who  has 
but  a  moment  remaining  is  released  from  the  common  motives 
for  dissimulation ;  and  Time,  that  lays  his  hand  on  everything 
else,  destroying  beauty,  undermining  health,  and  wasting  the 


THE   LAST   MOMENTS  OF  EMINENT   MEN  i6i 

powers  of  life,  spares  the  ruling  passion,  which  is  connected 
with  the  soul  itself.    That  passion 

"...    sticks  to  our  last  sand. 
Consistent  in  our  follies  and  our  sins, 
Here  honest  Nature  ends  as  she  begins." 

Napoleon  expired  during  the  raging  of  a  whirlwind,  and 
his  last  words  showed  that  his  thoughts  were  in  the  battle-field. 
The  meritorious  author  of  the  "  Memoir  of  Cabot,"  a  work 
which  in  accuracy  and  in  extensive  research  is  very  far  superior 
to  most  late  treatises  on  maritime  discovery,  tells  us  that  the 
discoverer  of  our  continent,  in  an  hallucination  before  his  death, 
believed  himself  again  on  the  ocean,  once  more  steering  in 
quest  of  adventure  over  waves  which  knew  him  as  the  steed 
knows  its  rider.  How  many  a  gentle  eye  has  been  dimmed  with 
tears  as  it  read  the  fabled  fate  of  Fergus  Maclvor !  Not  inferior 
to  the  admirable  hero  of  the  romance  was  the  Marquis  of  Mont- 
rose, who  had  fought  for  the  Stuarts  and  fell  into  the  hands  of 
the  Presbyterians.  His  head  and  his  Hmbs  were  ordered  to 
be  severed  from  his  body,  and  to  be  hanged  on  the  Tolbooth  in 
Edinburgh  and  in  other  public  towns  of  the  kingdom.  He  Hs- 
tened  to  the  sentence  with  the  pride  of  loyalty  and  the  fierce 
anger  of  a  generous  defiance.  "  I  wish,"  he  exclaimed,  "  I  had 
flesh  enough  to  be  sent  to  every  city  in  Christendom,  as  a  tes- 
timony to  the  cause  for  which  I  suflfer." 

But  let  us  take  an  example  of  sublimer  virtue,  such  as  we 
find  in  a  statesman  who  lived  without  a  stain  from  youth  to 
maturity,  and  displayed  an  unwavering  consistency  to  the  last ; 
a  hero  in  civil  life,  who  was  in  some  degree  our  own.  It  be- 
comes America  to  take  part  in  rescuing  from  undeserved  cen- 
sure the  names  and  the  memory  of  victims  to  the  unconquer- 
able love  of  republican  liberty. 

"Vane,  young  in  years,  in  counsel  old:    to  know 
Both  spiritual  power  and  civil,  what  each  means. 
What  severs  each,  thou'st  learned,  which  few  have  done. 
The  bounds  of  either  sword  to  thee  we  owe; 
Therefore  on  thy  firm  hand  Religion  leans 
In  peace,  and  reckons  thee  her  eldest  son." 

He  that  would  discern  the  difference  between  magnanimous 
genius  and  a  shallow  wit  may  compare  this  splendid  eulogy  of 
II 


l62  BANCROFT 

Milton  with  the  superficial  levity  in  the  commentary  of  War- 
ton.  It  is  a  fashion  to  call  Sir  Henry  Vane  a  fanatic.  And  what 
is  fanaticism  ?  True,  .he  was  a  rigid  Calvinist.  True,  he  has 
written  an  obscure  book  on  the  mystery  of  godliness,  of  which 
all  that  we  understand  is  excellent,  and  we  may  therefore  infer 
that  the  vein  of  the  rest  is  good.  But  does  this  prove  him  a 
fanatic  ?  If  to  be  the  uncompromising  defender  of  civil  and  re- 
ligious liberty  be  fanaticism;  if  to  forgive  injuries  be  fanati- 
cism ;  if  to  believe  that  the  mercy  of  God  extends  to  all  his  creat- 
ures, and  may  reach  even  the  angels  of  darkness,  be  fanaticism ; 
if  to  have  earnestly  supported  in  the  Long  ParHament  the  free- 
dom of  conscience ;  if  to  have  repeatedly,  boldly,  and  zealously 
interposed  to  check  the  persecution  of  Roman  Catholics;  if 
to  have  labored  that  the  sect  which  he  least  approved  should 
enjoy  their  property  in  security  and  be  safe  from  all  penal  en- 
actments for  nonconformity ;  if  in  his  public  life  to  have  pur- 
sued a  career  of  firm,  conscientious,  disinterested  consistency, 
never  wavering,  never  trimming,  never  changing — if  all  this 
be  fanaticism,  then  was  Sir  Harry  Vane  a  fanatic.  Not  other- 
wise. The  people  of  Massachusetts  declined  to  continue  him 
in  office;  and  when  his  power  in  England  was  great,  he  re- 
quited the  colony  with  the  benefits  of  his  favoring  influence. 
He  resisted  the  arbitrariness  of  Charles  I,  but  would  not  sit  as 
one  of  his  judges.  He  opposed  the  tyranny  of  Cromwell.  When 
that  extraordinary  man  entered  the  House  of  Commons  to 
break  up  the  Parliament  which  was  about  to  pass  laws  that 
would  have  endangered  his  supremacy.  Vane  rebuked  him  for 
his  purpose  of  treason.  When  the  musketeers  invaded  the  hall 
of  debate,  and  others  were  silent,  Vane  exclaimed  to  the  most 
despotic  man  in  Europe :  "  This  is  not  honest.  It  is  against 
morality  and  common  honesty."  Well  might  Cromwell,  since 
his  designs  were  criminal,  reply :  "  Sir  Henry  Vane !  Sir  Henry 
Vane !    The  Lord  deliver  me  from  Sir  Henry  Vane !  " 

Though  Vane  suffered  from  the  usurpation  of  the  Protector, 
he  lived  to  see  the  Restoration.  On  the  return  of  the  Stuarts, 
like  Lafayette  among  the  Bourbons,  he  remained  the  stanch 
enemy  of  tyranny.  The  austere  patriot  whom  Cromwell  had 
feared  struck  terror  into  the  hearts  of  a  faithless  and  licentious 
court.  It  was  resolved  to  destroy  him.  In  a  different  age  or 
country  the  poisoned  cup,  or  the  knife  of  the  assassin,  might 


THE   LAST   MOMENTS   OF   EMINENT   MEN  163 

have  been  used ;  in  that  season  of  corrupt  influence  a  judicial 
murder  was  resolved  upon.  His  death  was  a  deliberate  crime, 
contrary  to  the  royal  promise ;  contrary  to  the  express  vote  of 
"  the  healing  Parliament " ;  contrary  to  law,  to  equity,  to  the 
evidence.  But  it  suited  the  designs  of  a  monarch  who  feared 
to  be  watched  by  a  statesman  of  incorruptible  elevation  of  char- 
acter. The  night  before  his  execution  he  enjoyed  the  society 
of  his  family  as  if  he  had  been  reposing  in  his  own  mansion. 
The  next  morning  he  was  beheaded.  The  least  concession 
would  have  saved  him.  If  he  had  only  consented  to  deny  the 
supremacy  of  Parliament  the  King  would  have  restrained  the 
mahgnity  of  his  hatred.  "  Ten  thousand  deaths  for  me,"  ex- 
claimed Vane,  "  ere  I  will  stain  the  purity  of  my  conscience." 
Historians  report  that  life  was  dear  to  him  ;  he  submitted  to  his 
and  with  the  firmness  of  a  patriot,  the  serenity  of  a  Christian. 

"  '  I  give  and  I  devise '  (old  Euclio  said. 
And  sighed)  '  my  lands  and  tenements  to  Ned.' 
'Your  money,  sir?*    'My  money,  sir!    what,  all? 
'  Why,  if  I  must '  (then  wept),  '  I  give  it  Paul.' 
'The  manor,  sir?'     'The  manor!    hold,'  he  cried, 
'  Not  that — I  can  not  part  with  that ' — and  died." 

Lorenzo  de'  Medici,  upon  his  death-bed,  sent  for  Savonarola 
to  receive  his  confession  and  grant  him  absolution.  The  severe 
anchorite  questioned  the  dying  sinner  with  unsparing  rigor. 
"  Do  you  believe  entirely  in  the  mercy  of  God  ?  "  "  Yes,  I  feel 
it  in  my  heart."  "  Are  you  truly  ready  to  restore  all  the  pos- 
sessions and  estates  which  you  have  unjustly  acquired?  "  The 
dying  duke  hesitated;  he  counted  up  in  his  mind  the  sums 
which  he  had  hoarded ;  delusion  whispered  that  nearly  all  had 
been  so  honestly  gained  that  the  sternest  censor  would  strike 
but  little  from  his  opulence.  The  pains  of  hell  were  threatened 
if  he  denied,  and  he  gathered  courage  to  reply  that  he  was  ready 
to  make  restitution.  Once  more  the  unyielding  priest  resumed 
his  inquisition.  "  Will  you  resign  the  sovereignty  of  Florence, 
and  restore  the  democracy  of  the  republic  ?  "  Lorenzo,  like 
Macbeth,  had  acquired  a  crown ;  but,  unlike  Macbeth,  he  saw 
sons  of  his  own  about  to  become  his  successors.  He  gloried 
in  the  hope  of  being  the  father  of  princes,  the  founder  of  a  line 
of  hereditary  sovereigns.  Should  he  crush  this  brilliant  expec- 
tation and  tremble  at  the  wild  words  of  a  visionary  ?    Should 


i64  BANCROFT 

he  who  had  reigned  as  a  monarch  stoop  to  die  as  a  merchant  ? 
No!  though  hell  itself  were  opening  beneath  his  bed.  "  Not 
that!  I  cannot  part  with  that."  Savonarola  left  his  bedside 
with  indignation,  and  Lorenzo  died  without  shrift. 

"  And  you,  brave  Cobham,  to  the  latest  breath, 
Shall  feel  your  ruling  passion  strong  in  death. 
Such  in  those  moments,  as  in  all  the  past — 
'  Oh,  save  my  country,  Heaven!  '  shall  be  your  last." 

Like  this  was  the  exclamation  of  the  patriot  Quincy,  whose 
virtues  have  been  fitly  commemorated  by  the  pious  reverence 
of  his  son.  The  celebrated  Admiral  Blake  breathed  his  last  as 
he  came  in  sight  of  England,  happy  in  at  least  descrying  the 
land  of  which  he  had  advanced  the  glory  by  his  brilliant  vic- 
tories. Quincy  died  as  he  approached  the  coast  of  Massachu- 
setts. He  loved  his  family ;  but  at  that  moment  he  gave  his 
whole  soul  to  the  cause  of  freedom.  "  Oh,  that  I  might  live  " 
— it  was  his  dying  wish — "  to  render  to  my  country  one  last 
service  I  " 

The  coward  falls  panic-stricken ;  the  superstitious  man  dies 
with  visions  of  terror  floating  before  his  fancy.  It  has  even 
happened  that  a  man  has  been  in  such  dread  of  eternal  woe  as 
to  cut  his  throat  in  his  despair.  The  phenomenon  seems 
strange ;  but  the  fact  is  unquestionable.  The  giddy  that  are 
near  a  precipice,  totter  toward  the  brink  which  they  would  shun. 
Everybody  remembers  the  atheism  and  bald  sensuality  of  the 
septuagenarian  Alexander  VI ;  and  the  name  of  his  natural 
son,  Caesar  Borgia,  is  a  proverb,  as  a  synonym  for  the  most 
vicious  selfishness.  Let  one  tale,  of  which  MacchiavelU  attests 
the  truth,  set  forth  the  deep  baseness  of  a  cowardly  nature. 
Borgia  had,  by  the  most  solemn  oaths,  induced  the  Duke  of 
Gravina,  Oliverotto,  Vitellozzo  VitelH,  and  another,  to  meet 
him  in  Sinigaglia,  for  the  purpose  of  forming  a  treaty,  and  then 
issued  the  order  for  the  massacre  of  Oliverotto  and  Vitelli. 
Can  it  be  believed?  Vitelli,  as  he  expired,  begged  of  the  in- 
famous Borgia,  his  assassin,  to  obtain  of  Alexander  a  dispensa- 
tion for  his  omissions,  a  release  from  purgatory. 

The  death-bed  of  Cromwell  himself  was  not  free  from  super- 
stition. When  near  his  end,  he  asked  if  the  elect  could  never 
fall.     "  Never,"  replied  Godwin  the  preacher.     "  Then  I  am 


THE   LAST   MOMENTS   OF   EMINENT   MEN          «^  j 

safe,"  said  the  man  whose  last  years  had  been  stained  by  cruelty  ^ 

and  tyranny ;  *'  for  I  am  sure  I  was  once  in  a  state  of  grace."  I 

Ximenes   languished  from   disappointment  at  the  loss  of  \ 

power  and  the  want  of  royal  favor.    A  smile  from  Louis  would  . 

have  cheered  the  death-bed  of  Racine.  j 

In  a  brave  mind  the  love  of  honor  endures  to  the  last.  \ 
"  Don't  give  up  the  ship !  "  cried  Lawrence,  as  his  life-blood  ■ 
was  flowing  in  torrents.  Abimelech  groaned  that  he  fell  ig- 
nobly by  the  hand  of  a  woman.  We  have  ever  admired  the  j 
gallant  death  of  Sir  Richard  Grenville,  who,  in  a  single  ship,  j 
encountered  a  numerous  fleet;  and,  when  mortally  wounded,  j 
husbanded  his  strength  till  he  could  summon  his  victors  to  bear  ' 
testimony  to  his  courage  and  his  patriotism.  "  Here  die  I,  \ 
Richard  Grenville,  with  a  joyous  and  quiet  mind,  for  that  I  ] 
have  ended  my  life  as  a  true  soldier  ought  to  do,  fighting  for  his  i 
country,  queen,  religion,  and  honor."  \ 

The  public  has  been  instructed  through  the  press  in  the  de-  ! 
tails  of  the  treason  of  Benedict  Arnold,  by  an  inquirer,  who 

has  compassed  earth  and  sea  in  search  of  historic  truth,  and  has  i 

merited  the  applause  of  his  country,  not  less  for  candor  and  ^ 

judgment,  than  for  diligence  and  ability.     The  victim  of  the  ■ 
intrigue  was  Andre.    The  mind  of  the  young  soldier  revolted 

at  the  service  of  treachery  in  which  he  had  become  involved,  i 

and,  holding  a  stain  upon  honor  to  be  worse  than  the  forfeiture  '• 

of  life,  he  shuddered  at  the  sight  of  the  gallows,  but  not  at  the  i 

thought  of  dying.     He  felt  the  same  sentiment  which  made  i 

death  welcome  to  Nelson  and  to  Wolfe,  to  whom  it  came  with  j 

glory  and  victory  for  its  companions  ;  but  for  Andre  the  keen  i 

sense  of  honor  added  bitterness  to  the  cup  of  affliction  by  excit-  : 

ing  fear  lest  the  world  should  take  the  manner  of  his  execution  ' 
as  evidence  of  merited  opprobrium. 

Finally :  he  who  has  a  good  conscience  and  a  well-balanced  T" 

mind  meets  death  with  calmness,  resignation,  and  hope.    Saint  n 

Louis  died  among  the  ruins  of  Carthage — a  Christian  king,  1 

laboring  in  vain  to  expel  the  religion  of  Mohammed  from  the  : 

spot  where  Dido  had  planted  the  gods  of  Syria.    "  My  friends,"  ■ 

said  he,  "  I  have  finished  my  course.    Do  not  mourn  for  me.  ; 

It  is  natural  that  I,  as  your  chief  and  leader,  should  go  before  ^ 

you.    You  must  follow  me.    Keep  yourselves  in  readiness  for  ] 

the  journey."    Then,  giving  his  son  his  blessing  and  the  best  j 


i66*  BANCROFT 


jti 


advice,  he  received  the  sacrament,  closed  his  eyes,  and  died 
as  he  was  repeating  from  the  Psalms :  "  I  will  come  into  thy 
house ;  I  will  worship  in  thy  holy  temple." 

The  curate  of  St.  Sulpice  asked  the  confessor  who  had 
shrived  Montesquieu  on  his  death-bed  if  the  penitent  had  given 
satisfaction.  **  Yes,"  replied  Father  Roust,  "  like  a  man  of 
genius."  The  curate  was  displeased;  unwilHng  to  leave  the 
dying  man  a  moment  of  tranquillity,  he  addressed  him,  "  Sir, 
are  you  truly  conscious  of  the  greatness  of  God  ?  "  "  Yes,"  said 
the  departing  philosopher,  "  and  of  the  littleness  of  man." 

How  calm  were  the  last  moments  of  Cuvier !  Benevolence  of 
feeling  and  self-possession  diffused  serenity  round  the  hour 
of  his  passing  away.  Confident  that  the  hand  of  death  was 
upon  him,  he  yet  submitted  to  the  application  of  remedies,  that 
he  might  gratify  his  more  hopeful  friends.  They  had  recourse 
to  leeches ;  and  with  delightful  simplicity  the  great  naturalist 
observed,  it  was  he  who  had  discovered  that  leeches  possess  red 
blood.  The  discovery,  which  he  made  in  his  youth,  had  been 
communicated  to  the  public  in  the  memoir  that  first  gained 
him  celebrity.  The  thoughts  of  the  dying  naturalist  recurred 
to  the  scenes  of  his  early  life,  to  the  coast  of  Normandy,  where, 
in  the  solitude  of  conscious  genius,  he  had  roamed  by  the  side 
of  the  ocean,  and  achieved  fame  by  observing  the  wonders  of 
animal  life  which  are  nourished  in  its  depths.  He  remembered 
his  years  of  poverty,  the  sullen  rejection  which  his  first  claims 
for  advancement  had  received,  and  all  the  vicissitudes  through 
which  he  had  been  led  to  the  highest  distinctions  in  science. 
The  son  of  the  Wiirtemberg  soldier,  of  too  feeble  a  frame  to 
embrace  the  profession  of  his  father,  had  found  his  way  to  the 
secrets  of  nature.  The  man  who,  in  his  own  province,  had 
been  refused  the  means  of  becoming  the  village  pastor  of  an 
ignorant  peasantry,  had  succeeded  in  charming  the  most  pol- 
ished circles  of  Paris  by  the  clearness  of  his  descriptions,  and 
commanding  the  attention  of  the  deputies  of  France  by  the 
grace  and  fluency  of  his  elocution.  And  now  he  was  calmly 
predicting  his  departure ;  his  respiration  became  rapid,  and  his 
head  fell  as  if  he  were  in  meditation.  Thus  his  soul  passed  to 
its  Creator  without  a  struggle.  "  Those  who  entered  afterward 
would  have  thought  that  the  noble  old  man,  seated  in  his  arm- 
chair by  the  fireplace,  was  asleep,  and  would  have  walked  softly 


THE   LAST   MOMENTS   OF   EMINENT   MEN  167 

across  the  room  for  fear  of  disturbing  him."  Heaven  had  but 
"  recalled  its  own." 

The  death  of  Haller  himself  was  equally  tranquil.  When 
its  hour  approached,  he  watched  the  ebbing  of  life  and  con- 
tinued to  observe  the  beating  of  his  pulse  till  sensation  was 
gone. 

A  tranquil  death  becomes  the  man  of  science,  or  the  scholar. 
He  should  cultivate  letters  to  the  last  moment  of  life ;  he  should 
resign  public  honors  as  calmly  as  one  would  take  off  a  domino 
on  returning  from  a  mask.  He  should  listen  to  the  signal  for 
his  departure,  not  with  exultation,  and  not  with  indifference. 
Respecting  the  dread  solemnity  of  the  change,  and  reposing  in 
hope  on  the  bosom  of  death,  he  should  pass  without  boldness 
and  without  fear,  from  the  struggles  of  inquiry  to  the  certainty 
of  knowledge,  from  a  world  of  doubt  to  a  world  of  truth. 


COMPENSATION 


BY 


RALPH     WALDO     EMERSON 


RALPH  WALDO  EMERSON 
1803— 1882 

Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  who  was  born  in  Boston  in  1803,  was  de- 
scended from  a  family  of  ministers,  "  eight  generations  of  culture,"  as 
Holmes  once  expressed  it.  He  was  educated  at  the  Boston  Latin  School 
and  at  Harvard,  where  he  graduated  in  1821  without  attracting  much  at- 
tention at  the  time.  He  then  taught  school  for  a  while,  studied  divinity 
and  became  a  minister  himself  in  turn,  preaching  to  the  congregation 
of  the  Second  Unitarian  Church  of  Boston  with  great  acceptance.  In 
1832,  however,  he  resigned  because  he  felt  unable  to  agree  with  his  con- 
gregation on  an  important  point  of  doctrine.  The  next  year  he  went 
abroad,  meeting,  among  other  celebrated  men,  Carlyle,  with  whom  he 
formed  a  friendship  that  deeply  influenced  them  both,  and  which  is 
one  of  the  most  famous  friendships  of  great  literary  men.  Return- 
ing home,  he  settled  in  Concord  in  the  ''  Old  Manse,"  which  had 
been  for  a  time  the  residence  of  Hawthorne.  He  now  began  to  support 
himself  and  his  family  by  lecturing.  In  1836  he  wrote  his  immortal 
"  Concord  Hymn,"  and  published  his  first  essay,  "  Nature,"  of  which, 
however,  less  than  five  hundred  copies  were  sold  in  ten  years.  In  1837 
Emerson  delivered  his  famous  address  before  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  So- 
ciety of  Harvard  on  "  The  American  Scholar,"  in  which  he  made  a 
strong  plea  for  the  emancipation  of  American  thought.  "  We  will  walk 
on  our  own  feet;  we  will  work  with  our  own  hands;  we  will  speak  our 
own  minds."  This  striving  after  originality_ig._cliajartpristir  of  Emerson. 
"  Think  for  yourself,"  he  says  agam  and  again.  "  Believe  your  own 
thought."  "  The  highest  merit  we  ascribe  to  Moses,  Plato,  and  Milton 
is  that  they  set  at  naught  books  and  traditions,  and  spoke,  not  what  men, 
but  what  they,  thought." 

In  1841  the  first  volume  of  the  "  Essays  "  appeared,  followed  by  the 
second  in  1844.  I"  these  two  volumes  are  included  the  most  notable 
and  representative  of  all  his  writings.  In  any  one  of  these  essays  may 
be  found  the  ^erm  of  the  whole  of  Emerson'^  philosophy,  and  any  one 
of  them  may  be  taken  as  fully  representativej^f  his_sj;yle.  The  titles 
do  not,  except  in  the  most  general  way,  give  anindication  of  their  con- 
tents. In  each  of  these  essays,  whether  it  be  the  one  on  "  History,"  on 
"  Self-Reliance,"  on  "  Compensation,"  on  "  Love,"  on  "  Friendship," 
or  on  "  The  Over-Soul,"  we  shall  find  the  same  intellectual  merits  and 
shortcomings,  the  same  literary  beauties  and  defects.  In  1847  Emerson 
again  visited  Europe,  where  he  delivered  a  series  of  lectures  afterwards 
published  in  the  volume  entitled  "  Representative  Men."  Gradually  the 
lofty  character  of  his  genius  came  to  be  recognized,  and  when  he  pub- 
lished his  "  Conduct  of  Life  "  twenty-five  hundred  copies  were  sold  in 
two  days.  Toward  the  close  of  life  his  mind  became  clouded,  but  he 
continued  his  work  to  the  very  end,  dying  in  Concord  in  1882  at  the  age 
of  seventy-nine. 

Emerson's  high  place  in  American  literature  is  undisputed.  He  is 
the  fofemost.  think.eiL.this  country  Jias  produced.  As  a  French  critic 
remarked,  in  this  North  AmericaTwhich  is  "ptctured  to  us  as  so  ma- 
terialistic, I  find  the  most  ideal  writer  of  our  times."  ^  Emerson  was 
noted  also  as  a  poet,  though  as  a  poet  he  is  lacking  in  perfection  of 
form.  It  is  as  an  essayist  and  philosopher  that  he  is  pre-eminent.  His 
literary  style  is  distinctlv  char^i:teristk  of  the  man.  His  sentences  are 
short  and  epigrammatic,  Saxpn  words  usually  predominating.  Some 
of  his  passages^are  difficult  of  interpretation,  but  in  Emerg^^c-^s  in 
Shakespeare,  and  in  all  writers  of  the  highest  genius,  there  will  always 
remain  greater  depths  to  be  revealed,  and  loftier  beauties  to  be  dis- 
covered with  ,each  reading. 

170 


COMPENSATION 

EVER  since  I  was  a  boy  I  have  wished  to  write  a  dis- 
course on  compensation:  for,  it  seemed  to  me  when 
very  young,  that,  on  this  subject,  Hfe  was  ahead  of 
theology,  and  the  people  knew  more  than  the  preachers 
taught.  The  documents  too,  from  which  the  doctrine  is  to  be 
drawn,  charmed  my  fancy  by  their  endless  variety,  and  lay 
always  before  me,  even  in  sleep ;  for  they  are  the  tools  in  our 
hands,  the  bread  in  our  basket,  the  transactions  of  the  street, 
the  farm,  and  the  dwelling-house,  the  greetings,  the  relations, 
the  debts  and  credits,  the  influence  of  character,  the  nature 
and  endowment  of  all  men.  It  seemed  to  me  also  that  in  it 
might  be  shown  men  a  ray  of  divinity,  the  present  action  of 
the  soul  of  this  world,  clean  from  all  vestige  of  tradition,  and 
so  the  heart  of  man  might  be  bathed  by  an  inundation  of 
eternal  love,  conversing  with  that  which  he  knows  was  always 
and  always  must  be,  because  it  really  is  now.  It  appeared, 
moreover,  that  if  this  doctrine  could  be  stated  in  terms  with 
any  resemblance  to  those  bright  intuitions  in  which  this  truth 
is  sometimes  revealed  to  us,  it  would  be  a  star  in  many  dark 
hours  and  crooked  passages  in  our  journey  that  would  not_ 
suffer  us  to  lose  our  way. 

I  was  lately  confirmed  in  these  desires  by  hearing  a  sermon 
at  church.  The  preacher,  a  man  esteemed  for  his  orthodoxy, 
unfolded  in  the  ordinary  manner  the  doctrine  of  the  last  judg- 
ment. He  assumed  that  judgment  is  not  executed  in  this 
world ;  that  the  wicked  are  successful ;  that  the  good  are  mis- 
erable ;  and  then  urged  from  reason  and  from  Scripture  a 
compensation  to  be  made  to  both  parties  in  the  next  life.  No 
offence  appeared  to  be  taken  by  the  congregation  at  this  doc- 
trine. As  far  as  I  could  observe,  when  the  meeting  broke  up, 
they  separated  without  remark  on  the  sermon. 

Yet  what  was  the  import  of  this  teaching?    What  did  the 

171 


172  EMERSON 

preacher  mean  by  saying  that  the  good  are  miserable  in  the 
present  Hfe?  Was  it  that  houses  and  lands,  offices,  wine, 
horses,  dress,  luxury,  are  had  by  unprincipled  men,  whilst  the 
sairfts  are  poor  and  despised;  and  that  a  compensation  is  to 
be  made  to  these  last  hereafter,  by  giving  them  the  like  grati- 
fications another  day — bank-stock  and  doubloons,  venison  and 
champagne?  This  must  be  the  compensation  intended;  for, 
what  else  ?  Is  it  that  they  are  to  have  leave  to  pray  and  praise  ? 
to  love  and  serve  men?  Why,  that  they  can  do  now.  The 
legitimate  inference  the  disciple  would  draw,  was ;  "  We  are 
to  have  such  a  good  time  as  the  sinners  have  now ;  " — or,  to 
push  it  to  its  extreme  import — "  You  sin  now ;  we  shall  sin 
by  and  by ;  we  would  sin  now,  if  we  could ;  not  being  suc- 
cessful, we  expect  our  revenge  to-morrow." 

The  fallacy  lay  in  the  immense  concession  that  the  bad  are 
successful ;  that  justice  is  not  done  now.  The  blindness  of 
the  preacher  consisted  in  deferring  to  the  base  estimate  of  the 
market  of  what  constitutes  a  manly  success,  instead  of  con- 
fronting and  convicting  the  world  from  the  truth ;  announc- 
ing the  presence  of  the  soul;  the  omnipotence  of  the  will: 
and  so  establishing  the  standard  of  good  and  ill,  of  success 
and  falsehood,  and  summoning  the  dead  to  its  present  tribunal. 

I  find  a  similar  base  tone  in  the  popular  reHgious  works  qLJ 
the  day,  and  the  same  doctrines  assumed  by  the  literary  men 
when  occasionally  they  treat  the  related  topics.  I  think  that 
our  popular  theology  has  gained  in  decorum,  and  not  in  prin- 
ciple, over  the  superstitions  it  has  displaced.  But  men  are 
better  than  this  theology.  Their  daily  life  gives  it  the  lie. 
Every  ingenuous  and  aspiring  soul  leaves  the  doctrine  behind 
him  in  his  own  experience;  and  all  men  feel  sometimes  the 
falsehood  which  they  cannot  demonstrate.  For. raen.are  wiser 
than  they  know.  That  which  they  hear  in  schools  and  pulpits 
without  afterthought,  if  said  in  conversation,  would  probably 
be  questioned  in  silence.  If  a  man  dogmatize  in  a  mixed  com- 
pany on  providence  and  the  divine  laws,  he  is  answered  by  a 
silence  which  conveys  well  enough  to  an  observer  the  dis- 
satisfaction of  the  hearer,  but  his  incapacity  to  make  his  own 
statement. 

I  shall  attempt  in  this  and  the  following  chapter  to  record 
some  facts  that  indicate  the  path  of  the  law  of  compensation ; 


COMPENSATION  173 

happy  beyond  my  expectation,  if  I  shall  truly  draw  the  smallest 
arc  of  this  circle. 

Polaritj^j  01,  acti^HU^a^  ^yery  part  o.L- 

nature;  in  darkness  and  light;  in  heat  and  cold;  in  the  ebb 
and  flow  of  waters ;  in  male  and  female ;  in  the  inspiration 
and  expiration  of  plants  and  animals ;  in  the  systole  and  dias- 
tole of  the  heart ;  in  the  undulations  of  fluids,  and  of  sound ; 
in  the  centrifugal  and  centripetal  gravity;  in  electricity,  gal- 
vanism, and  chemical  affinity.  Superinduce  magnetism  at  one 
end  of  a  needle;  the  opposite  magnetism  takes  place  at  the 
other  end.  If  the  south  attracts,  the  north  repels.  To  empty 
here,  you  must  condense  there.  An  inevitable  duaHsm  bisects 
nature,  so  that  each  thing  is  a  half,  and  suggests  another  thing 
to  make  it  whole ;  as  spirit,  matter ;  man,  woman ;  subjective, 
objective ;   in,  out ;   upper,  under ;  motion,  rest ;  yea,  nay. 

Whilst  the  world  is  thus  dual,  so  is  every  one  of  its  parts. 
The  entire  system  of  things  gets  represented  in  every  particle. 
There  is  somewhat  that  resembles  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  sea, 
day  and  night,  man  and  woman,  in  a  single  needle  of  the  pine, 
in  a  kernel  of  corn,  in  each  individual  of  every  animal  tribe. 
The  reaction  so  grand  in  the  elements,  is  repeated  within 
these  small  boundaries.  For  example,  in  the  animal  kingdom, 
the  physiologist  has  observed  that  no  creatures  are  favorites, 
but  a  certain  compensation  balances  every  gift  and  every  dez- 
igj£ti  A  surplusage  given  to  one  part  is  paid  out  of  a  reduc- 
tion from  another  part  of  the  same  creature.  If  the  head  and 
neck  are  enlarged,  the  trunk  and  extremities  are  cut  short. 

The  theory  of  the  mechanic  forces  is  another  example. 
What  we  gain  in  power  is  lost  in  time ;  and  the  converse.  The 
periodic  or  compensating  errors  of  the  planets,  is  another  in- 
stance. The  influences  of  climate  and  soil  in  political  history 
are  another.  The  cold  climate  invigorates.  The  barren  soil 
does  not  breed  fevers,  crocodiles,  tigers,  or  scorpions. 

The  same  dualism  underlies  the  nature  and  condition  of 
man.  Every  excess  causes  a  defect;  every  defect  an  excess^. 
Every  sweet  hath  its  sour ;  every  evil  its  good.  Every  faculty 
which  is  a  receiver  of  pleasure,  has  an  equal  penalty  put  on 
its  abuse.  It  is  to  answer  for  its  moderation  with  its  life.  For 
every  grain  of  wit  there  is  a  grain  of  folly.  For  everything 
you  have  missed,  you  have  gained  something  else;   and  for 


174  EMERSON 

everything  you  gain,  you  lose  something.  If  riches  increase, 
they  are  increased  that  use  them.  If  the  gatherer  gathers  too 
much,  nature  takes  out  of  the  man  what  she  puts  into  his 
chest;  swells  the  estate,  but  kills  the  owner.  IvIsLture- -hates- 
monopolies  and  exceptions.  The  waves  of  the  sea  do  not 
more  speedily  seek  a  level  from  their  loftiest  tossing,  than  the 
varieties  of  condition  tend  to  equalize  themselves.  There  is 
always  some  levelling  circumstance  that  puts  down  the"over- 
bearing,  the  strong,  the  rich,  the  fortunate,  substantially  on 
the  same  ground  with  all  others.  Is  a  man  too  strong  and 
fierce  for  society,  and  by  temper  and  position  a  bad  citizen 
— a  morose  ruffian  with  a  dash  of  the  pirate  in  him — nature 
sends  him  a  troop  of  pretty  sons  and  daughters  who  are  get- 
ting along  in  the  dame's  classes  at  the  village  school,  and  love 
and  fear  for  them  smooth  his  grim  scowl  to  courtesy.  Thus 
she  contrives  to  intenerate  the  granite  and  felspar,  takes  the 
boar  out  and  puts  the  lamb  in,  and  keeps  her  balance  true. 

The  farmer  imagines  power  and  place  are  fine  things.  But 
the  President  has  paid  dear  for  his  White  House.  It  has 
commonly  cost  him  all  his  peace  and  the  best  of  his  manly 
attributes.  To  preserve  for  a  short  time  so  conspicuous  an 
appearance  before  the  world,  he  is  content  to  eat  dust  before 
the  real  masters  who  stand  erect  behind  the  throne.  Or,  do 
men  desire  the  more  substantial  and  permanent  grandeur  of 
genius?  Neither  has  this  an  immunity.  He  who  by  force 
of  will  or  of  thought  is  great,  and  overlooks  thousands,  has 
the  responsibility  of  overlooking.  With  every  influx  of  light, 
comes  new  danger.  Has  he  light?  he  must  bear  witness  to 
the  light,  and  always  outrun  that  sympathy  which  gives  him 
such  keen  satisfaction,  by  his  fidelity  to  new  revelations  of 
the  incessant  soul.  He  must  hate  father  and  mother,  wife  and 
child.  Has  he  all  that  the  world  loves  and  admires  and  covets  ? 
— he  must  cast  behind  him  their  admiration,  and  afflict  them 
by  faithfulness  to  his  truth,  and  become  a  by-word  and  a 
hissing. 

This  law  writes  the  laws  of  cities  and  nations.  I^t  will  not 
be  balked  of  its  end  in  the  smallest  iota.  It  is  in  vain  to  build 
or  plot  or  combine  against  it.  Things  refuse  to  be  misman- 
aged long.  Res  nolunt  diu  male  administrari.  Though  no 
checks  to  a  new  evil  appear,  the  checks  exist  and  will  appear. 


COMPENSATION  175 

If  the  government  is  cruel,  the  governor's  Hfe  is  not  safe.  If 
you  tax  too  high,  the  revenue  will  yield  nothing.  If  you  make 
the  criminal  cede  sanguinary,  juries  will  not  convict.  Noth- 
ing arbitrary,  nothing  artificial  can  endure.  The  true  life  and 
satisfactions  of  man  seem  to  elude  the  utmost  rigors  or  felici- 
ties of  condition,  and  to  establish  themselves  with  great 
indifferency  under  all  varieties  of  circumstance.  Under  all 
governments  the  influence  of  character  remains  the  same — in 
Turkey  and  in  New  England  about  alike.  Under  the  primeval 
despots  of  Egypt,  history  honestly  confesses  that  man  must 
have  been  as  free  as  culture  could  make  him. 

These  appearances  indicate  the  fact  that  the  universe  is 
represented  in  every  one  of  its  particles.  Everything  in  nat- 
ure contains  all  the  powers  of  nature.  Everything  is  made  of 
one  hidden"  stuff ;  as  the  naturalist  sees  one  type  under  every 
metamorphosis,  and  regards  a  horse  as  a  running  man,  a 
fish  as  a  swimming  man,  a  bird  as  a  flying  man,  a  tree  as  a 
rooted  man.  Each  new  form  repeats  not  only  the  main  char- 
acter of  the  type,  but  part  for  part  all  the  details,  all  the  aims, 
furtherances,  hinderances,  energies,  and  whole  system  of  every 
other.  Every  occupation,  trade,  art,  transaction,  is  a  com- 
pend  of  the  world,  and  a  correlative  of  every  other.  Each 
one  is  an  entire  emblem  of  human  life;  of  its  good  and  ill, 
its  trials,  its  enemies,  its  course  and  its  end.  And  each  one 
must  somehow  accommodate  the  whole  man,  and  recite  all 
his  destiny. 

TJie  world  globes  itself  in  a  drop  of  dew.  The  microscope 
cannot  find  the  animalcule  which  is  less  perfect  for  being  lit- 
tle. Eyes,  ears,  taste,  smell,  motion,  resistance,  appetite,  and 
organs  of  reproduction  that  take  hold  on  eternity — all  find 
room  to  consist  in  the  small  creature.  So  do  we  put  our  life 
into  every  act  T]ie  true  doctrine  of  omnipresence  is  that  God 
reappears  with  all  his  parts  in  every  moss  and  cobweb.  The 
value  of  the  universe  contrives  to  throw  itself  into  every  point. , 
If  the  good  is  there,  so  is  the  evil;  if  the  affinity,  so  the  re- 
pulsion ;  if  the  force,  so  the  limitation. 

Thus  is  the  universe  alive.^   All  things  are  moral.    Tjiat_§oul_ 
which  within  us  is  a  sentiment,  outside  of  us  is  a  law.     We 
feel  its  inspirations ;   out  there  in  history  we  can  see  its  fatal 
strength.     It  is  almighty.    All  nature  feels  its  grasp.     "  It  is 


176  EMERSON 

in  the  world  and  the  world  was  made  by  it."  It  is  eternal,  but 
its  enacts  itself  in  time  and  space.  Justice  is  JioLpost^oned. 
Aj^rfeiit-equity., adjusts  its  balance  in  all  parts~^f  life.  01 
Kv^oi  Aio^i  ael  evTTiTrrovat.  The  dice  of  God  are  always  loade^. 
The  world  looks  like  a  multiplication-table  or  a  mathematical 
equation,  which,  turn  it  how  you  will,  balances  itself.  Take 
what  figure  you  will,  its  exact  value,  nor  more  nor  less,  still 
returns  to  you.  Every  secret  is  told,  every  crime  is  punished, 
every  virtue  rewarded,  every  wrong  redressed,  in  silence  and 
certainty.  What  we  call  retribution  is  the  universal  necessity 
by  which  the  whole  appears  wherever  a  part  appears.  If  you 
see  smoke,  there  must  be  a  fire.  If  you  see  a  hand  or  a  limb, 
you  know  that  the  trunk  to  which  it  belongs,  is  there  behind. 

Every  act  rewards  itself,  or,  in  other  words,  integrates  it- 
self, in  a  twofold  manner;  first,  in  the  thing,  or,  in  real  nat- 
ure ;  and  secondly,  in  the  circumstance,  or,  in  apparent  nature. 
Men  call  the  circumstance  the  retribution.  The  causal  retri- 
bution is  in  the  thing,  and  is  seen  by  the  soul.  The  retribution 
in  the  circumstance  is  seen  by  the  understanding;  it  is  in- 
separable from  the  thing,  but  is  often  spread  over  a  long 
time,  and  so  does  not  become  distinct  until  after  many  years. 
The  specific  stripes  may  follow  late  after  the  offence,  but  they 
follow  because  they  accompany  it.  Crime  and  punishment 
grow  out  of  oriesterp.  Punishment  is  a  fruit  that  unsuspected 
rfpens  within  the  flower  of  the  pleasure  which  concealed  it. 
Cause  and  efifect,  means  and  end,  seed  and  fruit,  cannot  be 
severed ;  for  the  effect  already  blooms  in  the  cause,  the  end 
preexists  in  the  means,  the  fruit  in  the  seed. 

Whilst  thus  the  world  will  be  whole,  and  refuses  to  be  dis- 
parted, we  seek  to  act  partially ;  to  sunder ;  to  appropriate ; 
for  example — to  gratify  the  senses,  we  sever  the  pleasure  of 
the  senses  from  the  needs  of  the  character.  The  ingenuity  of 
man  has  been  dedicated  always  to  the  solution  of  one  prob- 
lem— how  to  detach  the  sensual  sweet,  the  sensual  strong,  the 
sensual  bright,  etc.,  from  the  moral  sweet,  the  moral  deep, 
the  moral  fair ;  that  is,  again,  to  contrive  to  cut  clean  off  this 
upper  surface  so  thin  as  to  leave  it  bottomless ;  to  get  a  one 
end,  without  an  other  end.  The  soul  says,  Eat ;  the  body 
would  feast.  The  soul  says,  The  man  and  woman  shall  be  one 
flesh  and  one  soul ;  the  body  would  join  the  flesh  only.    The 


COMPENSATION  177 

soul  says,  Have  dominion  over  all  things  to  the  ends  of  virtue ; 
the  body  would  have  the  power  over  things  to  its  own  ends. 

The  soul  strives  amain  to  live  and  work  through  all  things. 
It  would  be  the  only  fact.  All  things  shall  be  added  unto  it 
— power,  pleasure,  knowledge,  beauty.  The  particular  man 
aims  to  be  somebody;  to  set  up  for  himself;  to  truck  and 
higgle  for  a  private  good ;  and,  in  particulars,  to  ride,  that  he 
may  ride;  to  dress,  that  he  may  be  dressed;  to  eat,  that  he 
may  eat;  and  to  govern  that  he  may  be  seen.  Men  seek  to 
be  great;  they  would  have  offices,  wealth,  power,  and  fame. 
They  think  that  to  be  great  is  to  get  only  one  side  of  nature 
— the  sweet,  without  the  other  side — the  bitter. 

Steadily  is  this  dividing  and  detaching  counteracted.  Up 
to  this  day,  it  must  be  owned,  no  projector  has  had  the  small- 
est success.  The  parted  water  reunites_^ehind  our  hand. 
Pleasure  is  taken  out  of  pleasant  things,  profit  out  of  profit- 
able things,  power  out  of  strong  things,  the  moment  we  seek 
to  separate  them  from  the  whole.  We^£an^ji^_inQlg_  halve 
things  and  get  the  sensual  good,  by  itself,  than  we  can  get  an 
inside  that  shall  have  no  outside,  or  a  light  without  a  shadow. 
'*  Drive  out  nature  with  a  fork,  she  comes  running  back." 

Life  invests  itself  with  inevitable  conditions,  which  the  un- 
wise seek  to  dodge,  which  one  and  another  brags  that  he  does 
not  know;  brags  that  they  do  not  touch  him — but  the  brag 
is  on  his  lips,  the  conditions  are  in  his  soul.  If  he  escapes 
them  in  one  part,  they  attack  him  in  another  more  vital  part. 
If  he  has  escaped  them  in  form,  and  in  the  appearance,  it  is 
that  he  has  resisted  his  life,  and  fled  from  himself,  and  the 
retribution  is  so  much  death.  So  signal  is  the  failure  of  all 
attempts  to  make  this  separation  of  the  good  from  the  tax, 
that  the  experiment  would  not  be  tried — since  to  try  it  is  to 
be  mad — but  for  the  circumstance,  that  when  the  disease  be- 
gan in  the  will,  of  rebellion  and  separation,  the  intellect  is  at 
once  infected,  so  that  the  man  ceases  to  see  God  whole  in 
each  object,  but  is  able  to  see  the  sensual  allurement  of  an 
object,  and  not  see  the  sensual  hurt;  he  sees  the  mermaid's 
head,  but  not  the  dragon's  tail ;  and  thinks  he  can  cut  off 
that  which  he  would  have,  from  that  which  he  would  not  have. 
"  How  secret  art  thou  who  dwellest  in  the  highest  heavens 
in  silence,  O  thou  only  great  God,  sprinkling  with  an  un- 
12 


178  EMERSON 

wearied  providence  certain  penal  blindnesses  upon  such  as 
have  unbridled  desires !  "  ^ 

The  human  soul  is  true  to  these  facts  in  the  painting  of 
fable,  of  history,  of  law,  of  proverbs,  of  conversation.  It  finds 
a  tongue  in  literature  unawares.  Thus  the  Greeks  called  Ju- 
piter, Supreme  Mind;  but  having  traditionally  ascribed  to 
him  many  base  actions,  they  involuntarily  made  amends  to 
reason,  by  tying  up  the  hands  of  so  bad  a  god.  He  is  made 
as  helpless  as  a  king  of  England.  Prometheus  knows  one 
secret,  which  Jove  must  bargain  for;  Minerva,  another.  He 
cannot  get  his  own  thunders ;  Minerva  keeps  the  key  of  them. 

*'  Of  all  the  gods  I  only  know  the  keys 
That  ope  the  solid  doors  within  whose  vaults 
His  thunders  sleep." 

A  plain  confession  of  the  in-working  of  the  All,  and  of  its 
moral  aim.  The  Indian  mythology  ends  in  the  same  ethics; 
and  indeed  it  would  seem  impossible  for  any  fable  to  be  in- 
vented and  get  any  currency  which  was  not  moral.  Aurora 
forgot  to  ask  youth  for  her  lover,  and  though  Tithonus  is 
immortal,  he  is  old.  Achilles  is  not  quite  invulnerable;  for 
Thetis  held  him  by  the  heel  when  she  dipped  him  in  the  Styx, 
and  the  sacred  waters  did  not  wash  that  part.  Siegfried,  in 
the  Nibelungen,  is  not  quite  immortal,  for  a  leaf  fell  on  his 
back  whilst  he  was  bathing  in  the  dragon's  blood,  and  that 
spot  which  it  covered  is  mortal.  And  so  it  always  is.  There 
is  a  crack  in  everything  God  has  made.  Always,  it  would 
seem,  there  is  this  vindictive  circumstance  stealing  in  at  un- 
awares, even  into  the  wild  poesy  in  which  the  human  fancy 
attempted  to  make  bold  holiday,  and  to  shake  itself  free  of 
the  old  laws — this  back-stroke,  this  kick  of  the  gun,  certifying 
that  the  law  is  fatal ;  that  in  nature,  nothing  can  be  given,  all 
things  are  sold.  ""^""""^  ""' 

This  is  that  ancient  doctrine  of  Nemesis,  who  keeps  watch 
in  the  universe,  and  lets  no  offence  go  unchastised.  The 
Furies,  they  said,  are  attendants  on  Justice,  and  if  the  sun  in 
heaven  should  transgress  his  path,  they  would  punish  him. 
The  poets  related  that  stone  walls,  and  iron  swords,  and 
leathern  thongs  had  an  occult  sympathy  with  the  wrongs  of 

^St.  Augustine:  "Confessions,"  Bk.  I.    ^ 


COMPENSATION  179 

their  owners ;  that  the  belt  which  Ajax  gave  Hector  dragged 
the  Trojan  hero  over  the  field  at  the  wheels  of  the  car  of 
Achilles;  and  the  sword  which  Hector  gave  Ajax  was  that 
on  whose  point  Ajax  fell.  They  recorded  that  when  the 
Thasians  erected  a  statue  to  Theogenes,  a  victor  in  the  games, 
one  of  his  rivals  went  to  it  by  night,  and  endeavored  to  throw 
it  down  by  repeated  blows,  until  at  last  he  moved  it  from  its 
pedestal  and  was  crushed  to  death  beneath  its  fall. 

This  voice  of  fable  has  in  it  somewhat  divine.  It  came  from 
thought  above  the  will  of  the  writer.  That  is  the  best  part 
of  each  writer,  which  has  nothing  private  in  it.  That  is  the 
best  part  of  each,  which  he  does  not  know,  that  which  flowed 
out  of  his  constitution,  and  not  from  his  too  active  invention ; 
that  which  in  the  study  of  a  single  artist  you  might  not  easily 
find,  but  in  the  study  of  many,  you  would  abstract  as  the 
spirit  of  them  all.  Phidias  it  is  not,  but  the  work  of  man  in 
that  early  Hellenic  world,  that  I  would  know.  The  name 
and  circumstance  of  Phidias,  however  convenient  for  history, 
embarrasses  when  we  come  to  the  highest  criticism.  We  are 
to  see  that  which  man  was  tending  to  do  in  a  given  period, 
and  was  hindered,  or,  if  you  will,  modified  in  doing,  by  the 
interfering  volitions  of  Phidias,  of  Dante,  of  Shakespeare,  the 
organ  whereby  man  at  the  moment  wrought. 

Still  more  striking  is  the  expression  of  this  fact  in  the 
proverbs  of  all  nations,  which  are  always  the  literature  of  rea- 
son, or  the  statements  of  an  absolute  truth,  without  qualifica- 
tion. Proverbs,  like  the  sacred  books  of  each  nation,  are  the 
sanctuary  of  the  intuitions.  That  which  the  droning  world, 
chained  to  appearances,  will  not  allow  the  reaHst  to  say  in  his 
own  words,  it  will  suffer  him  to  say  in  proverbs  without  con- 
tradiction. And  this  law  of  laws  Which  the  pulpit,  the  senate, 
and  the  college  deny,  is  hourly  preached  in  all  markets  and 
all  languages  by  flights  of  proverbs,  whose  teaching  is  as  true 
and  as  omnipresent  as  that  of  birds  and  flies. 

All  things  are  double,  one  against  another.  Tit  for  tat; 
an  eye  for  an  eye;  a  tooth  for  a  tooth;  blood  for  blood; 
measure  for  measure;  love  for  love.  Give  and_ij:  shall .  b£ 
given  you.  He  that  watereth  shall  be  watered  himself.  What 
will  you  have  ?  quoth  God ;  pay  for  it  and  take  it.  Nothing 
venture,  nothing  have.    Thou  shalt  be  paid  exactly  for  what 


i8o  EMERSON 

thou  hast  done,  no  more,  no  less.  Who  doth  not  work  shall 
not  eat.  Harm  watch,  harm  catch.  Curses  always  recoil  on 
the  head  of  him  who  imprecates  them.  If  you  put  a  chain 
around  the  neck  of  a  slave,  the  other  end  fastens  itself  around 
your  own.  Bad  counsel  confounds  the  adviser.  The  devil 
i^n.,ass. 

It  is  thus  written,  because  it  is  thus  in  life.  Our  action  is 
ovennastered  and  characterized  above  our  will  by  the  law  of 
nature.  We  aim  at  a  petty  end  quite  aside  from  the  public 
good,  but  our  act  arranges  itself  by  irresistible  magnetism 
in  a  line  with  the  poles  of  the  world. 

A  man£annot  speak  but  he  judges  himself.  With  his  will, 
or  against  his  will,  he  draws  his  portrait  to  the  eye  of  his  com- 
panions by  every  word.  Every  opinion  reacts  on  him  who 
utters  it.  It  is  a  thread-bairtbrown  at  a  mark,  tut  the  other 
end  remains  in  the  thrower's  bag.  Or,  rather,  it  is  a  harpoon 
thrown  at  the  whale,  unwinding,  as  it  flies,  a  coil  of  cord  in 
the  boat,  and  if  the  harpoon  is  not  good,  or  not  well  thrown, 
it  will  go  nigh  to  cut  the  steersman  in  twain,  or  to  sink  the 
boat. 

You  cannot  do  wrong  without  suffering  wrong.  "  ^p  man 
had  ever  a  point  of  pride  that  was  not  injurious  to  him,"  saiJ 
Burke.  The  exclusive  in  fashionable  life  does  not  see  that 
he  excludes  himself  from  enjoyment,  in  the  attempt  to  appro- 
priate it.  The  exclusionist  in  religion  does  not  see  that  he 
shuts  the  door  of  heaven  on  himself,  in  striving  to  shut  out 
others.  Treat  men  as  pawns  and  ninepins,  and  you  shall  suffer 
as  well  as  they.  If  you  leave  out  their  heart,  you  shall  lose 
your  own.  The  senses  would  make  things  of  all  persons ;  of 
women,  of  children,  of  the  poor.  The  vulgar  proverb,  "  I  will 
get  it  from  his  purse  or  get  it  from  his  skin,"  is  sound 
philosophy. 

All  infractions  of  love  and  equity  in  our  social  relations  are 
speedily  punished.  They  are  punished  by  fear.  Whilst  I  stand 
in  simple  relations  to  my  fellow-man,  I  have  no  displeasure 
in  meeting  him.  We  meet  as  water  meets  water,  or  a  current 
of  air  meets  another,  with  perfect  diffusion  and  interpenetra- 
tion  of  nature.  But  as  soon  as  there  is  any  departure  from 
simplicity,  and  attempt  at  halfness,  or  good  for  me  that  is  not 
good  for  him,  my  neighbor  feels  the  wrong ;  he  shrinks  from 


COMPENSATION  l8l 

me  as  far  as  I  have  shrunk  from  him ;  his  eyes  no  longer  seek 
mine;  there  is  war  between  us;  there  is  hate  in  him  and 
fear  in  me. 

All  the  old  abuses  in  society,  the  great  and  universal  and 
the  petty  and  particular,  all  unjust  accumulations  of  property 
and  power,  are  avenged  in  the  same  manner.  Fear  is  an  in- 
structor  of  great  sagacity,  and  the  herald  of  all  r<gvolutions. 
One'THTng  he  always  teaches,  that  there  is" jCQ&egne^g^^i^ere 
Tie  appear^.  He  is  a  carrion  crow,  and  though  you  see  not 
well  what  he  hovers  for,  there  is  death  somewhere.  Our  prop- 
erty is  timid,  our  laws  are  timid,  our  cultivated  classes  are 
timid.  Fear  for  ages  has  boded  and  mowed  and  gibbered 
over  government  and  property.  That  obscene  bird  is  not  there 
for  nothing.    H>£.,iadicates  great  wrojtigs  which  mustbe  revised- 

Of  the  like  nature  is  that  expectation  of  change  which  in- 
stantly follows  the  suspension  of  our  voluntary  activity.  The 
terror  of  cloudless  noon,  the  emerald  of  Polycrates,  the  awe 
of  prosperity,  the  instinct  which  leads  every  generous  soul  to 
impose  on  itself  tasks  of  a  noble  asceticism  and  vicarious 
virtue,  are  the  tremblings  of  the  balance  of  justice  through 
the  heart  and  mind  of  man. 

Experienced  men  of  the  world  know  very  well  tl^at^it^is 


always^bestJjo^>ay>-&cot  and  lot  as  lhey_gQ_along^nd,^at  a 
man  often.,  pays  dear  for  a  small  frugality.  The  borrower 
runs  in  his  own  debt.  Has  a  man  gained  anything  who  has 
received  a  hundred  favors  and  rendered  none  ?  Has  he  gained 
by  borrowing,  through  indolence  or  cunning,  his  neighbor's 
wares,  or  horses,  or  money  ?  There  arises  on  the  deed  the  in- 
stant acknowledgment  of  benefit  on  the  one  part,  and  of  debt 
on  the  other;  that  is,  of  superiority  and  inferiority.  The 
transaction  remains  in  the  memory  of  himself  and  his  neigh- 
bor ;  and  ^very  new  transaction  alters,  according  to  its  nature, 
their  relation  to  each  other.  He  may  soon  come  to  see  that 
he  had  better  have  broken  his  own  bones  than  to  have  ridden 
in  his  neighbor's  coach,  and  that  "  the  highest  price  he  can 

ry  for  a  thing  is  to  ask  for  it." 
A  wise  man  will  extend  this  lesson  to  all  parts  of  life,  and 
know  that  it  is  always  the  part  of  prudence  to  face  every 
claimant,  and  pay  every  just  demand  on  your  time,  your  tal- 
ents, or  your  hearty    Always  pay ;   for,  first  or  last,  you  must 


l82  EMERSON 

V 

pay  your  entire  debt.j  Persons  and  events  may  stand  for  a 
time  between  you  aM"^ justice,  but  it  is  only  a  postponement. 
You  must  pay  at  last  your  own  debt.  If  you  are  wise,  you 
will  dread  a  prosperity  which  only  loads  you  with  more.  Beae::. 
fit  isJhe_jeiid-of  natur-e.  But  for  every  benefit  which  you_ 
receive,  a  tax  is  levied.  -^  He_is  great  "who  confers  the  most 
\enefits.  He  is  base — and  that  is  the  only  base  thing  in  the 
universe — to  receive  favors  and  render  none.  In  the  order  of 
nature  we  cannot  render  benefits  to  those  from  whom  we  re- 
ceive them,  or  only  seldom.  But  the  benefit  we  receive  must 
be  rendered  again,  line  for  Hne,  deed  for  deed,  cent  for  cent, 
to  somebody.  Beware  of  too  much  good  staying  in  your  hand. 
It  will  fast  corrupt  and  worm  worms.  Pay  it  away  quickly 
in  some  sort. 

Labor  is  watched  over  by  the  same  pitiless  laws.  Cheapest, 
say  the  prudent,  is  the  dearest  labor.  What  we  buy  in  a 
broom,  a  mat,  a  wagon,  a  knife,  is  some  application  of  good 
sense  to  a  common  want.  It  is  best  to  pay  in  your  land  a 
skilful  gardener,  or  to  buy  good  sense  applied  to  gardening; 
in  your  sailor,  good  sense  applied  to  navigation ;  in  the  house, 
good  sense  applied  to  cooking,  sewing,  serving;  in  your 
agent,  good  sense  applied  to  accounts  and  afifairs.  So  do  you 
multiply  your  presence,  or  spread  yourself  throughout  your 
estate.  5.ut  because  of  the  dual  constitution  of  all  things,  in 
labor  as  in  life  there  can  be  no  cheating.  The  thief  steals 
from  himself.  The  swindler  swindles  himself.  F^  the  real 
price  of  labor  is  knowledge  and  virtue,  whereof  wealth  and 
credit  are  signs.  These  signs,  like  paper  money,  may  be  coun- 
terfeited or  stolen,  but  that  which  they  represent,  namely, 
knowledge  and  virtue,  cannot  be  counterfeited  or  stolen.  These 
ends  of  labor  cannot  be  answered  but  by  real  exertions  of  the 
mind,  and  in  obedience  to  pure  motives.  The  cheat,  the  defaul- 
ter, the  gambler  cannot  extort  the  benefit,  cannot  extort  the 
knowledge  of  material  and  moral  nature  which  his  honest  care 
and  pains  yield  to  the  operative.  The  law  of  nature  is,  Do  the 
thing,  and  you  shall  have  the  power :  but  they  who  do  not  the 
thing  have  not  the  power. 

"^'rHuman  labor,  through  all  its  forms,  from  the  sharpening 
of  a  stake  to  the  construction  of  a  city  or  an  epic,  is  one  im- 
mense illustration  of  the  perfect  compensation  of  the  universe. 


COMPENSATION  183 

Everywhere  and  always  this  law  is  sublime.  i-5^e  absolute 
balance  of  give  and  take,  the  doctrine  that  everything  has  its 
price ;  and  if  that  price  is  not  paid,  not  that  thing  but  some- 
thing else  is  obtained,  and  that  it  is  impossible  to  get  any- 
thing without  its  price — this  doctrine  is  not  less  sublime  in 
the  columns  of  a  ledger  than  in  the  budgets  of  states,  in  the 
laws  of  light  and  darkness,  in  all  the  action  and  reaction  of 
nature. /I  cannot  doubt  that  the  high  laws  which  each  man 
sees  ever  implicated  in  those  processes  with  which  he  is 
conversant,  the  stem  ethics  which  sparkle  on  his  chisel-edge, 
which  are  measured  out  by  his  plumb  and  foot-rule,  which 
stand  as  manifest  in  the  footing  of  the  shop-bill  as  in  the  his- 
tory of  a  state — do  recommend  to  him  his  trade,  and  though 
seldom  named,  exalt  his  business  to  his  imagination. 

The  league  between  virtue  and  nature  engages  all  things 
to  assume  a  hostile  front  to  vice.  JThe  beautiful  laws  and 
substances  of  the  world  persecute  an3^hip  the  traitor.  He 
finds  that  things  are  arranged  for  truth  and  benefit,  but  there 
is  no  den  in  the  wide  world  to  hide  a  rogue.  There  is  no  such 
thing  asyconcealment.  Commit  a  crime,  and  the  earth  is  made 
of  gla§s^ Commit  a  crime,  and  it  seems  as  if  a  coat  of  snow 
fell  on  the  ground,  such  as  reveals  in  the  woods  the  track  of 
every  partridge  and  fox  and  squirrel  and  mole.  You  cannot 
recall  the  spoken  word,  you  cannot  wipe  out  the  foot-track,  you 
cannot  draw  up  the  ladder,  so  as  to  leave  no  inlet  or  clue.  /Al- 
ways  some  damning  circumstance  transpire^  The  laws  and 
substances  of  nature,  water,  snow,  wind,  gravitation,  become 
penalties  to  the  thief. 

|On  the  other  hand,  the  law  holds  with  equal  sureness  for 
all  right  action.  Love,  and  you  shall  be  loved^AU  love  is 
mathematically  just,  as  much  as  the  two  sides  of  an  algebraic 
equation.  The  good  man  has  absolute  good,  which  like  fire 
turns  everything  to  its  own  nature,  so  that  you  cannot  do  him 
any  harm;  but  as  the  royal  armies  sent  against  Napoleon, 
when  he  approached,  cast  down  their  colors  and  from  enemies 
became  friends,  so  do  disasters  of  all  kinds,  as  sickness,  of- 
fence, poverty,  prove  benefactors. 

"  Winds  blow  and  waters  roll 
Strength  to  the  brave,  and  power  and  deity, 
Yet  in  themselves  are  nothing." 


i 


184  EMERSON 

The  good  are  befriended  even  by  weakness  and  defect.  As 
no  man  had  ever  a  point  of  pride  that  was  not  injurious  to  him, 
so  no  man  had  ever  a  defect  that  was  not  somewhere  made  use- 
ful to  him.  The  stag  in  the  fable  admired  his  horns  and 
blamed  his  feet,  but  when  the  hunter  came,  his  feet  saved  him, 
and  afterwards,  caught  in  the  thicket,  his  horns  destroyed  him. 
Biyery^n3an_iii  his  lifetime  needs  to  thank  his  faults.  As  no 
man  thoroughly  understands  a  truth  until  first  he  has  con- 
tended against  it,  so  no  man  has  a  thorough  acquaintance 
with  the  hinderances  or  talents  of  men,  until  he  has  suffered 
from  the  one,  and  seen  the  triumph  of  the  other  over  his  own 
want  of  the  same.  Has  he  a  defect  of  temper  that  unfits  him 
to  live  in  society?  Thereby  he  is  driven  to  entertain  himself 
alone,  and  acquire  habits  of  self-help;  and  thus,  like  the 
wounded  oyster,  he  mends  his  shell  with  pearl. 

Ql3T_strength  grows  out  of  our  weakness.  Not  until  we 
are  pricked  and  stung  and  sorely  shot  at,  awakens  the  indig- 
nation  which  arms  itself  with  secret  forces.  A^reat  man  is 
ajways  willing  to  be  little.  Whilst  he  sits  on  the  cushion  oF 
advantages,  he  goes  to  sleep.  When  he  is  pushed,  tormented, 
defeated,  he  has  a  chance  to  learn  something;  he  has  been 
put  on  his  wits,  on  his  manhood ;  he  has  gained  facts ;  learns 
his  ignorance;  is  cured  of  the  insanity  of  conceit;  has  got 
moderation  and  real  skill.  The  wise  man  always  throws  him- 
self on  the  side  of  his  assailants.  It  is  more  his  interest  than 
it  is  theirs  to  find  his  weak  point.  The  wound  cicatrizes  and 
falls  off  from  him,  like  a  dead  skin,  and  when  they  would 
triumph,  lo !  he  has  passed  on  invulnerable.  Blame  is  safer 
than  praise.  I  hate  to  be  defended  in  a  newspaper.  As  long 
as  all  that  is  said,  is  said  against  me,  I  feel  a  certain  assurance 
of  success.  But  as  soon  as  honeyed  words  of  praise  are  spoken 
for  me,  I  feel  as  one  that  lies  unprotected  before  his  enemies. 
Iij  general,  every  evil  to  which  we  do  not  succumb,  is  a  bene- 
factor. As  the  Sandwich  Islander  believes  that  the  strength 
and  valor  of  the  enemy  he  kills,  passes  into  himself,  so  we 
gain  the  strength  of  the  temptation  we  resist. 

The  same  guards  which  protect  us  frorrj  disaster,  defect, 
and  enmity,  defend  us,  if  we  will,  from  selfishness  and  fraud. 
Bolts  and  bars  are  not  the  best  of  our  institutions,  nor  is 
shrewdness  in  trade  a  mark  of  wisdom.     Men  suffer  all  their 


COMPENSATION  185 

life  long,  under  the  foolish  superstition  that  they  can  be 
cheated.  But  it  is  as  impossible  for  a  man  to  be  cheated  by 
anyone  but  himself,  as  for  a  thing  to  be,  and  not  to  be,  at  the 
same  time.  There  is  a  third  silent  party  to  all  our  bargains. 
The  nature  and  soul  of  things  takes  on  itself  the  guaranty  of 
the  fulfilment  of  every  contract,  so  that  honest  service  can- 
not come  to  loss.  If  you  serve  an  ungrateful  master,  serve 
him  the  more.  Put  God  in  your  debt.  Every  stroke  shall  be 
repaid.  The  longer  the  payment  is  withholden,  the  better  for 
you ;  for  compound  interest  on  compound  interest  is  the  rate 
and  usage  of  this  exchequer. 

The  history  of  persecution  is  a  history  of  endeavors  to  cheat 
nature,  to  make  water  run  up  hill,  to  twist  a  rope  of  sand.  It 
makes  no  difference  whether  the  actors  be  many  or  one,  a 
tyrant  or  a  mob.  A  mob  is  a  society  of  bodies  voluntarily 
bereaving  themselves  of  reason  and  traversing  its  work.  The 
mob  is  man  voluntarily  descending  to  the  nature  of  the  beast. 
Its  fit  hour  of  activity  is  night.  Its  actions  are  insane  like  its 
whole  constitution.  It  persecutes  a  principle :  it  would*  whip 
a  right ;  it  would  tar  and  feather  justice,  by  inflicting  fire  and 
outrage  upon  the  houses  and  persons  of  those  who  have  these. 
It  resembles  the  prank  of  boys  who  run  with  fire-engines  to 
put  out  the  ruddy  aurora  streaming  to  the  stars.  The  in- 
violate spirit  turns  their  spite  against  the  wrong-doers.  The 
martyr  cannot  be  dishonored.  Every  lash  inflicted  is  a  tongue 
of  fame ;  every  prison  a  more  illustrious  abode  ;  every  burned 
book  or  house  enlightens  the  world ;  every  suppressed  or  ex- 
punged word  reverberates  through  the  earth  from  side  to  side. 
The  minds  of  men  are  at  last  aroused ;  reason  looks  out  and 
justifies  her  own,  and  malice  finds  all  her  work  vain.  It  is 
the  whipper  who  is  whipped,  and  the  tyrant  who  is  undone. 

Thus  do  all  things  preach  the  indiflferency  of  circumstances. 
Tlieman_is_alL  Everything  ha$  two  sides,  a  good  and  an 
evil.  Every  advantage  has  its  tax.  I  learn  to  be  content.  But 
the  doctrine  of  compensation  is  not  the  doctrine  of  indififer- 
ency.  The  thoughtless  say,  on  hearing  these  representations, 
What  boots  it  to  do  well  ?  there  is  one  event  to  good  and  evil ; 
if  I  gain  any  good,  I  must  pay  for  it ;  if  I  lose  my  good,  I 
gain  some  other ;  all  actions  are  indifferent. 

There  is  a  deeper  fact  in  the  soul  than  compensation,  to  wit. 


l86  EMERSON 

its  own  nature.  X^^  soul  is  not  a  compensation,  but  a  life. 
The  soul  is,.  Under  all  this  running  sea  of  circumstance, 
whose  waters  ebb  and  flow  with  perfect  balance,  lies  the 
aboriginal  abyss  of  real  being.  Existence,  or  God,  is  not^^a 
relation,  or  a  part,  but  the.whol^.  Being  is  the  vast  affirma- 
tive, excluding  negation,  self-balanced,  and  swallowing  up_all 
relations,  parts  and  times,  within  itself.  Nature,  truth,  virtue 
are  the  influx  from  thence.  Vice  is  the  absence  or  departure 
""Trf-  the  same.'  Nothing,  falsehood,  may  indeed  stand  as  the 
greatmgKt  or  shade,  on  which,  as  a  background,  the  living 
universe  paints  itself  forth ;  but  no  fact  is  begotten  by  it ;  it 
cannot  work ;  for  it  is  not.  It  cannot  work  any  good ;  it  can- 
not work  any  harm.  It  is  harm  inasmuch  as  it  is  worse  not 
to  be  than  to  be. 

We  feel  defrauded  of  the  retribution  due  to  evil  acts,  be- 
cause the  criminal  adheres  to  his  vice  and  contumacy,  and  does 
not  come  to  a  crisis  or  judgment  anywhere  in  visible  nature. 
There  is  no  stunning  confutation  of  his  nonsense  before  men 
and  angels.  Has  he  therefore  outwitted  the  law?  Inasmuch 
as  he  carries  the  malignity  and  the  lie  with  him,  he  so  far 
deceases  from  nature.  In  some  manner  there  will  be  a  demon- 
stration of  the  wrong  to  the  understanding  also ;  but  should 
we  not  see  it,  this  deadly  deduction  makes  square  the  eternal 
account. 

Neither  can  it  be  said,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  gain  of 
rectitude  must  be  bought  by  any  loss.  There  is  no  penalty 
JtQ. virtue;  no  penalty  to  wisdom;  they  are  proper  additions 
of  being.  In  a  virtuous  action,  I  properly  am;  in  a  virtuous 
act,  I  add  to  the  world ;  I  plant  into  deserts  conquered  from 
chaos  and  nothing,  and  see  the  darkness  receding  on  the  limits 
of  the  horizon.  There  can  be  no  excess  to  love;  none  to 
knowledge;  none  to  beauty,  when  these  attributes  are  con- 
sidered in  the  purest  sense.  The  soul  refuses  all  Hmits.  It 
affirms  in  man  always  an  optimism,  never  a  pessimism. 

His  life  is  a  progress,  and  not  a  station.  His  instinct  is 
trust.  Our  instinct  uses  "  more  "  and  *'  less  "  in  application 
to  man,  always  of  the  presence  of  the  soul,  and  not  of  its 
absence ;  the  brave  man  is  greater  than  the  coward ;  the  true, 
the  benevolent,  the  wise,  is  more  a  man  and  not  less,  than  the 
fool  and  knave.    There  is,  therefore,  no  tax  on  the  good  of 


COMPENSATION  187 

virttie :  fnr^  tfrat  is  ^}ye  incnminp^  of  God  himself,  or  absolute 
existence,  without  any  comparative.  All  external  good  has 
its  tax,  and  if  it  came  without  desert  or  sweat,  has  no  root  in 
me  and  the  next  wind  will  blow  it  away.  ButjiJJLlafLgQCidUii 
nature  is  the„sours,_and  jnay  be  had,  if  paid^igr^iU-Xiature's 
lawful  coin^  that  is,  by  labor  which  the  heart  and  the  head  will 
'aflow.  I  no  longer  wish  to  meet  a  good  I  do  not  earn,  for 
example,  to  find  a  pot  of  buried  gold,  knowing  that  it  brings 
with  it  new  responsibility.  I  do  not  wish  more  external  goods 
— neither  possessions,  nor  honors,  nor  powers,  nor  persons. 
The  gain  is  apparent :  the  tax  is  certain.  But  there  is  no  tax 
on  the  knowledge  that  the  compensation  exists,  and  that  it 
is  not  desirable  to  dig  up  treasure.  Herein  I  rejoice  with  a 
serene  eternal  peace.  I  contract  the  boundaries  of  possible 
mischief.  I  learn  the  wisdom  of  St.  Bernard,  "  Nothing  can 
work  me  damage  except  myself;  the  harm  that  I  sustain,  I 
carry  about  with  me,  and  never  am  a  real  sufiferer  but  by  my 
own  fault." 

In  the  nature  of  the  soul  is  the  compensation  for  the  in-., 
equalities  of  condition.  The  radical  tragedy  of  nature  seems 
to  be  the  distinction  of  more  and  less.  How  can  less  not  feel 
the  pain;  how  not  feel  indignation  or  malevolence  towards 
more?  Look  at  those  who  have  less  faculty,  and  one  feels 
sad,  and  knows  not  well  what  to  make  of  it.  Almost  he  shuns 
their  eye;  almost  he  fears  they  will  upbraid  God.  What 
should  they  do?  It  seems  a  great  injustice.  But  face  the 
facts,  and  see  them  nearly,  and  these  mountainous  inequalities 
vanish.  Love  reduces  them  all,  as  the  sun  melts  the  icebergs 
in  the  sea.  The  heart  and  soul  of  all  men  being  one,  this  bit- 
terness of  his  and  mine  ceases.  His  is  mine.  I  am  my  brother, 
and  my  brother  is  me.  If  I  feel  overshadowed  and  outdone 
by  great  neighbors,  I  can  yet  love;  I  can  still  receive;  and 
he  that  loveth,  maketh  his  own  the  grandeurjj^  loves*^  There- 
by I  make  the  discovery  that  my  brother  is  my  guardian,  act- 
ing for  me  with  the  friendliest  designs,  and  the  estate  I  so 
admired  and  envied,  is  my  own.  It  is  the  eternal  nature  of 
the  soul  to  appropriate  and  make  all  things  its  own.  Jesus  ^^ 
and  Shakespeare  are  fragments  of  the  soul,  and  by  love  I 
conquer  and  incorporate  them  in  my  own  conscious  domain./ 
His  virtue — is  not  that  mine  ?  His  wit — if  it  cannot  be  made 
mine,  it  is  not  wit. 


i88  EMERSON 

Such,  also,  is  the  natural  history  of  calamity.  The  changes 
which  break  up  at  short  intervals  the  prosperity  of  men,  are 
advertisements  of  a  nature  whose  law  is  growth.  Evermore 
it  is  the  order  of  nature  to  grow,  and  every  soul  is  by  this 
intrinsic  necessity  quitting  its  whole  system  of  things,  its 
friends,  and  home,  and  laws,  and  faith,  as  the  shell-fish  crawls 
out  of  its  beautiful  but  stony  case,  because  it  no  longer  ad- 
mits of  its  growth,  and  slowly  forms  a  new  house.  In  pro- 
portion to  the  vigor  of  the  individual,  these  revolutions  are 
frequent,  until  in  some  happier  mind  they  are  incessant,  and 
all  worldly  relations  hang  very  loosely  about  him,  becoming, 
as  it  were,  a  transparent  fluid  membrane  through  which  the 
form  is  alway  seen,  and  not  as  in  most  men  an  indurated 
heterogeneous  fabric  of  many  dates,  and  of  no  settled  char- 
acter, in  which  the  man  is  imprisoned.  Then  there  can  be 
enlargementj  and  the  man  ^f>  to-day  scarcely  recognizes  the 
man  of  yesterday.  And  such  should  be  the  outward  biog- 
raphy of  man  in  time,  a  putting  off  of  dead  circumstances  day 
by  day,  as  he  renews  his  raiment  day  by  day.  But  to  us,  in 
bur  lapsed  estate,  resting  not  advancing,  resisting  not  co-op- 
erating with  the  divine  expansion,  this  growth  comes  by 
shocks. 

V\[e  cannot  part  with  our  friends.  We  cannot  let  our  angels 
go.  We  do  not  see  that  they  only  go  out,  that  archangels 
may  come  in.  We  are  idolaters  of  the  old.  We  do  not  be- 
lieve in  the  riches  of  the  soul,  in  its  proper  eternity  and  omni- 
presence. We  do  not  believe  there  is  any  force  in  to-day  to 
rival  or  re-create  that  beautiful  yesterday.  We  linger  in  the 
ruins  of  the  old  tent,  where  once  we  had  bread  and  shelter  and 
organs,  nor  believe  that  the  spirit  can  feed,  cover,  and  nerve 
us  again.  We  cannot  again  find  aught  so  dear,  so  sweet,  so 
graceful.  But  we  sit  and  weep  in  vain.  The  voice  of  the 
Almighty  saith,  "  Up  and  onward  forevermore !  "  We  can- 
not stay  amid  the  ruins.  Neither  will  we  rely  on  the  new; 
and  so  we  walk  ever  with  reverted  eyes,  like  those  monsters 
who  look  backwards. 

And  yet  the  compensations  of  calamity  are  made  apparent 
to  the  understanding  also,  after  long  intervals  of  time.  A 
fever,  a  mutilation,  a  cruel  disappointment,  a  loss  of  wealth, 
a  loss  of  friends  seems  at  the  moment  unpaid  loss,  and  unpay- 


COMPENSATION 


189 


able.  But  the  sure  years  reveal  the  deep  remedial  force  that 
underlies  all  facts.  The  death  of  a  dear  friend,  wife,  brother, 
lover,  which  seemed  nothing  but  privation,  somewhat  later 
assumes  the  aspect  of  a  guide  or  genius;  for  it  commonly 
operates  revolutions  in  our  way  of  life,  terminates  an  epoch 
of  infancy  or  of  youth  which  was  waiting  to  be  closed,  breaks 
up  a  wonted  occupation,  or  a  household,  or  style  of  living, 
and  allows  the  formation  of  new  ones  more  friendly  to  the 
growth  of  character.  It  permits  or  constrains  the  formation 
of  new  acquaintances,  and  the  reception  of  new  influences  that 
prove  of  the  first  importance  to  the  next  years ;  and^^thejjiao, 
or  woman  who  would  have  remained  a  sunny  garden  Jlo^ver, 
with  no  room  for  its  roots  and  too  much  sunshine  for  its  head, 
by  the  falling  of  the  walls  and  the  neglect  of  the  gardener,  is 
made  the  banian  of  the  forest,  yielding  shade  and  fruit  to  wide 
neighborhoods  of  men. 


THE    PROCESSION    OF    LIFE 


BY 


NATHANIEL    HAWTHORNE 


NATHANIEL  HAWTHORNE 
1804— 1864 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne  was  born  at  Salem,  Massachusetts,  in  1804, 
and  came  of  a  seafaring  family.  Owing  to  the  death  of  his  father, 
much  of  his  boyhood  was  passed  with  an  uncle  among  the  woods  and 
lakes  of  Maine,  a  circumstance  that,  no  doubt,  intensified  his  love  of 
nature  and  of  solitude.  After  graduating  from  Bowdoin  College,  where 
his  classmates  included  Longfellow  and  Franklin  Pierce,  he  settled  in 
1825  in  Salem.  Here  he  remained  for  twelve  years,  reading,  writing 
and  burning  his  manuscripts,  and  becoming,  in  his  own  familiar  phrase, 
"  the  obscurest  man  of  letters  in  America."  In  1837  he  published 
the  first  series  of  "  Twice-Told  Tales."  Through  the  influence  of  Ban- 
croft he  received  an  appointment  in  the  Boston  Custom  House  in  1837. 
In  1841  Hawthorne  became  a  member  of  the  Brook  Farm  community, 
an  experience  which  furnished  material  for  his  "  Blithedale  Romance," 
published  eleven  years  later.  In  1843  he  married  Miss  Peabody,  and 
now  began  what  proved  a  most  happy  wedded  life  in  the  "  Old  Manse  " 
at  Concord.  "  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse  "  came  from  the  press  in 
1846,  and  the  same  year  Hawthorne  removed  to  Salem,  where  he  held 
another  government  appointment  for  four  years.  In  1850  "  The  Scarlet 
Letter  "  appeared,  and  made  its  author  at  once  the  most  famous  writer 
in  America.  An  edition  of  five  thousand  copies  was  sold  in  ten  days. 
"  The  House  of  the  Seven  Gables  "  was  published  the  following  year, 
and  "  The  Blithedale  Romance  "was  brought  out  in  1852. 

In  1853  Hawthorne  was  appointed  consul  at  Liverpool  by  President 
Pierce.  He  served  in  this  capacity  with  honor  and  distinction  for 
four  years,  and  after  his  resignation  spent  three  years  in  study  and 
travel  in  France,  Italy,  and  England.  The  English,  and  the  French  and 
Italian  notebooks,  published  after  his  death,  contain  the  record  of  many 
delightful  impressions  received  during  his  travels  abroad.  In  i860 
Hawthorne  published  his  last  complete  romance  "  The  Marble  Faun." 
He  then  returned  to  Concord,  where,  after  a  lingering  illness,  he  passed 
away  in  1864.  After  his  death  a  number  of  fragments  of  his  works 
were  published,  including  three  incomplete  romances  and  the  "  Note 
Books." 

Hawthorne  in  many  respects  is  entitled  to  the  first  rank  in  American 
literature.  Although  he  called  his  books  romances,  they  prove  on  closer 
study  to  be  infinitely  more.  Few  writers  have  described  more  accu- 
rately and  studied  more  profoundly  the  influences  of  the  moral  and 
spiritual  forces  in  human  life.  Considered  as  narratives  of  the  outward 
incidents  of  human  life,  or  as  depicting  the  innermost  workings  of  the 
human  conscience,  his  tales  are  of  rare  excellence.  In  his  shorter 
sketches  written  in  the  essay  style,  such  as  "  The  Procession  of  Human 
Life,"  in  which  he  treats  the  theme  of  the  universal  brotherhood  of 
man,  Hawthorne  also  shows  the  profound  and  philosophic  bent  of  his 
"intellect.  His  style  is  perhaps  the  most  polished  of  all  American  prose 
writers.  He  revised  and  even  burned  his  manuscripts  repeatedly,  satis- 
fied only  with  the  nearest  approach  to  literary  perfection  that  lay  in 
his  power.  It  is  thus  that  his  work  in  every  field  he  attempted  exhibits 
the  highest  degree  of  artistic  excellence. 


192 


THE  PROCESSION  OF  LIFE 

LIFE  figures  itself  to  me  as  a  festal  or  funeral  procession. 
All  of  us  have  our  places  and  are  to  move  onward  under 
the  direction  of  the  chief  marshal.  The  grand  difficulty 
results  from  the  invariably  mistaken  principles  on  which  the 
deputy  marshals  seek  to  arrange  this  immense  concourse  of 
people,  so  much  more  numerous  than  those  that  train  their  in- 
terminable length  through  streets  and  highways  in  times  of 
political  excitement.  Their  scheme  is  ancient  far  beyond  the 
memory  of  man,  or  even  the  record  of  history,  and  has  hitherto 
been  very  little  modified  by  the  innate  sense  of  something  wrong 
and  the  dim  perception  of  better  methods  that  have  disquieted  all 
the  ages  through  which  the  procession  has  taken  its  march.  Its 
members  are  classified  by  the  merest  external  circumstances,  and 
thus  are  more  certain  to  be  thrown  out  of  their  true  positions 
than  if  no  principle  of  arrangement  were  attempted.  In  one 
part  of  the  procession  we  see  men  of  landed  estate  or  moneyed 
capital  gravely  keeping  each  other  company  for  the  preposterous 
reason  that  they  chance  to  have  a  similar  standing  in  the  tax- 
gatherer's  book.  Trades  and  professions  march  together  with 
scarcely  a  more  real  bond  of  union.  In  this  manner,  it  cannot 
be  denied,  people  are  disentangled  from  the  mass  and  separated 
into  various  classes  according  to  certain  apparent  relations ;  all 
have  some  artificial  badge  which  the  world,  and  themselves 
among  the  first,  learn  to  consider  as  a  genuine  characteristic. 
Fixing  our  attention  on  such  outside  shows  of  similarity  or  dif- 
ference, we  lose  sight  of  those  realities  by  which  nature,  fortune, 
fate,  or  providence  has  constituted  for  every  man  a  brotherhood, 
wherein  it  is  one  great  office  of  human  wisdom  to  classify  him. 
When  the  mind  has  once  accustomed  itself  to  a  proper  arrange- 
ment of  the  procession  of  life  or  a  true  classification  of  society, 
even  though  merely  speculative,  there  is  thenceforth  a  satisfac- 
tion which  pretty  well  suffices  for  itself,  without  the  aid  of  any 
actual  reformation  in  the  order  of  march. 
13  193 


194  HAWTHORNE 

For  instance,  assuming  to  myself  the  power  of  marshalling 
the  aforesaid  procession,  I  direct  a  trumpeter  to  send  forth  a 
blast  loud  enough  to  be  heard  from  hence  to  China,  and  a  herald 
with  world-pervading  voice  to  make  proclamation  for  a  certain 
class  of  mortals  to  take  their  places.  What  shall  be  their  prin- 
ciple of  union  ?  After  all,  an  external  one,  in  comparison  with 
many  that  might  be  found,  yet  far  more  real  than  those  which 
the  world  has  selected  for  a  similar  purpose.  Let  all  who  are 
afflicted  with  like  physical  diseases  form  themselves  into  ranks. 

Our  first  attempt  at  classification  is  not  very  successful.  It 
may  gratify  the  pride  of  aristocracy  to  reflect  that  disease, 
more  than  any  other  circumstance  of  human  life,  pays  due  ob- 
servance to  the  distinctions  which  rank  and  wealth  and  poverty 
and  lowliness  have  established  among  mankind.  Some  maladies 
are  rich  and  precious,  and  only  to  be  acquired  by  the  right  of 
inheritance  or  purchased  with  gold.  Of  this  kind  is  the  gout, 
which  serves  as  a  bond  of  brotherhood  to  the  purple-visaged 
gentry  who  obey  the  herald's  voice  and  painfully  hobble  from  all 
civilized  regions  of  the  globe  to  take  their  post  in  the  grand 
procession.  In  mercy  to  their  toes  let  us  hope  that  the  march 
may  not  be  long.  The  dyspeptics,  too,  are  people  of  good  stand- 
ing in  the  world.  For  them  the  earliest  salmon  is  caught  in  our 
Eastern  rivers,  and  the  shy  woodcock  stains  the  dry  leaves  with 
his  blood  in  his  remotest  haunts,  and  the  turtle  comes  from  the 
far  Pacific  islands  to  be  gobbled  up  in  soup.  They  can  afford  to 
flavor  all  their  dishes  with  indolence,  which,  in  spite  of  the  gen- 
eral opinion,  is  a  sauce  more  exquisitely  piquant  than  appetite 
won  by  exercise.  Apoplexy  is  another  highly  respectable  dis- 
ease. We  will  rank  together  all  who  have  the  symptom  of  dizzi- 
ness in  the  brain,  and  as  fast  as  any  drop  by  the  way  supply  their 
places  with  new  members  of  the  board  of  aldermen. 

On  the  other  hand,  here  come  whole  tribes  of  people  whose 
physical  lives  are  but  a  deteriorated  variety  of  life,  and  them- 
selves a  meaner  species  of  mankind,  so  sad  an  effect  has  been 
wrought  by  the  tainted  breath  of  cities,  scanty  and  unwholesome 
food,  .destructive  modes  of  labor  and  the  lack  of  those  moral 
supports  that  might  partially  have  counteracted  such  bad  influ- 
ences. Behold  here  a  train  of  house-painters  all  afflicted  with  a 
peculiar  sort  of  colic.  Next  in  place  we  will  marshal  those 
workmen  in  cutlery  who  have  breathed  a  fatal  disorder  into  their 


THE   PROCESSION    OF    LIFE  195 

lungs  with  the  impalpable  dust  of  steel.  Tailors  and  shoemak- 
ers, being  sedentary  men,  will  chiefly  congregate  in  one  part  of 
the  procession  and  march  under  similar  banners  of  disease,  but 
among  them  we  may  observe  here  and  there  a  sickly  student  who 
has  left  his  health  between  the  leaves  of  classic  volumes,  and 
clerks,  likewise,  who  have  caught  their  deaths  on  high  official 
stools,  and  men  of  genius,  too,  who  have  written  sheet  after  sheet 
with  pens  dipped  in  their  hearts'  blood.  These  are  a  wretched, 
quaking,  short-breathed  set.  But  what  is  this  crowd  of  pale- 
cheeked,  slender  girls,  who  disturb  the  ear  with  the  multiplicity 
of  their  short,  dry  coughs!  They  are  seamstresses  who  have 
plied  the  daily  and  nightly  needle  in  the  service  of  master-tailors 
and  close-fisted  contractors,  until  now  it  is  almost  time  for  each 
to  hem  the  borders  of  her  own  shroud.  Consumption  points 
their  place  in  the  procession.  With  their  sad  sisterhood  are  in- 
termingled many  youthful  maidens  who  have  sickened  in  aris- 
tocratic mansions,  and  for  whose  aid  science  has  unavailingly 
searched  its  volumes  and  whom  breathless  love  has  watched. 
In  our  ranks  the  rich  maiden  and  the  poor  seamstress  may  walk 
arm  in  arm.  We  might  find  innumerable  other  instances  where 
the  bond  of  mutual  disease — not  to  speak  of  nation-sweeping 
pestilence — embraces  high  and  low  and  makes  the  king  a  brother 
of  the  clown.  But  it  is  not  hard  to  own  that  disease  is  the  natural 
aristocrat.  Let  him  keep  his  state  and  have  his  established 
orders  of  rank  and  wear  his  royal  mantle  of  the  color  of  a  fever- 
flush,  and  let  the  noble  and  wealthy  boast  their  own  physical 
infirmities  and  display  their  symptoms  as  the  badges  of  high 
station.  All  things  considered,  these  are  as  proper  subjects  of 
human  pride  as  any  relations  of  human  rank  that  men  can  fix 
upon. 

Sound  again,  thou  deep-breathed  trumpeter! — and,  herald, 
with  thy  voice  of  might,  shout  forth  another  summons  that  shall 
reach  the  old  baronial  castles  of  Europe  and  the  rudest  cabin 
of  our  Western  wilderness !  What  class  is  next  to  take  its  place 
in  the  procession  of  mortal  life  ?  Let  it  be  those  whom  the  gifts 
of  intellect  have  united  in  a  noble  brotherhood. 

Ay,  this  is  a  reality  before  which  the  conventional  distinc- 
tions of  society  melt  away  like  a  vapor  when  we  would  grasp 
it  with  the  hand.  Were  Byron  now  alive,  and  Bums,  the  first 
would  come  from  his  ancestral  abbey,  flinging  aside,  although 


196  HAWTHORNE 

unwillingly,  the  inherited  honors  of  a  thousand  years  to  take  the 
arm  of  the  mighty  peasant  who  grew  immortal  while  he  stooped 
behind  his  plough.  These  are  gone,  but  the  hall,  the  farmer's 
fireside,  the  hut — perhaps  the  palace — the  counting-room,  the 
workshop,  the  village,  the  city,  life's  high  places  and  low  ones, 
may  all  produce  their  poets  whom  a  common  temperament  per- 
vades like  an  electric  sympathy.  Peer  or  ploughman  will  muster 
them  pair  by  pair  and  shoulder  to  shoulder.  Even  society  in  its 
most  artificial  state  consents  to  this  arrangement.  These  fac- 
tory-girls from  Lowell  shall  mate  themselves  with  the  pride  of 
drawing-rooms  and  literary  circles — ^the  bluebells  in  fashion's 
nosegay,  the  Sapphos  and  Montagues  and  Nortons  of  the  age. 

Other  modes  of  intellect  bring  together  as  strange  companies. 
Silk-gowned  professor  of  languages,  give  your  arm  to  this 
sturdy  blacksmith  and  deem  yourself  honored  by  the  conjunc- 
tion, though  you  behold  him  grimy  from  the  anvil.  All  varieties 
of  human  speech  are  like  his  mother-tongue  to  this  rare  man.^ 
Indiscriminately  let  those  take  their  places,  of  whatever  rank 
they  come,  who  possess  the  kingly  gifts  to  lead  armies  or  to 
sway  a  people — nature's  generals,  her  lawgivers,  her  kings,  and 
with  them,  also,  the  deep  philosophers  who  think  the  thought  in 
one  generation  that  is  to  revolutionize  society  in  the  next.  With 
the  hereditary  legislator  in  whom  eloquence  is  a  far  descended 
attainment — a  rich  echo  repeated  by  powerful  voices,  from 
Cicero  downward — ^we  will  match  some  wondrous  backwoods- 
man who  has  caught  a  wild  power  of  language  from  the  breeze 
among  his  native- forest  boughs.  But  we  may  safely  leave  breth- 
ren and  sisterhood  to  settle  their  own  congenialities.  Our  ordin- 
ary distinctions  become  so  trifling,  so  impalpable,  so  ridiculously 
visionary,  in  comparison  with  a  classification  founded  on  truth, 
that  all  talk  about  the  matter  is  immediately  a  commonplace. 

Yet,  the  longer  I  reflect,  the  less  am  I  satisfied  with  the  idea 
of  forming  a  separate  class  of  mankind  on  the  basis  of  high  in- 
tellectual power.  At  best,  it  is  but  a  higher  development  of  in- 
nate gifts  common  to  all.  Perhaps,  moreover,  he  whose  genius 
appears  deepest  and  truest  excels  his  fellows  in  nothing  save  the 
knack  of  expression ;  he  throws  out,  occasionally,  a  lucky  hint 

*  THawthome    refers    here    to    Elihu  thus  became  familiar  with  Latin,  Greek, 

Burritt,     the     "  Learned     Blacksmith."  Hebrew,  Arabic,  and  nearly  all  modern 

Burritt    studied    mathematics    and    Ian-  European  tongues.— Editor.] 
guages  while  working  at  his  forge,  and 


THE  PROCESSION   OF   LIFE  197 

at  truths  of  which  every  human  soul  is  profoundly  though  unut- 
terably, conscious.  Therefore,  though  we  suffer  the  brother- 
hood of  intellect  to  march  onward  together,  it  may  be  doubted 
whether  their  peculiar  relation  will  not  begin  to  vanish  as  soon 
as  the  procession  shall  have  passed  beyond  the  circle  of  this 
present  world.    But  we  do  not  classify  for -eternity. 

And  next  let  the  trumpet  pour  forth  a  funeral  wail  and  the 
herald's  voice  give  breath  in  one  vast  cry  to  all  the  groans  and 
grievous  utterances  that  are  audible  throughout  the  earth.  We 
appeal  now  to  the  sacred  bond  of  sorrow,  and  summon  the  great 
multitude  who  labor  under  similar  afflictions  to  take  their  places 
in  the  march.  How  many  a  heart  that  would  have  been  insen- 
sible to  any  other  call  has  responded  to  the  doleful  accents  of 
that  voice !  It  has  gone  far  and  wide  and  high  and  low,  and  left 
scarcely  a  mortal  roof  unvisited.  Indeed,  the  principle  is  only 
too  universal  for  our  purpose,  and,  unless  we  limit  it,  will  quite 
break  up  our  classification  of  mankind  and  convert  the  whole 
procession  into  a  funeral  train.  We  will,  therefore,  be  at  some 
pains  to  discriminate. 

Here  comes  a  lonely  rich  man :  he  has  built  a  noble  fabric  for 
his  dwelling-house,  with  a  front  of  stately  architecture,  and 
marble  floors,  and  doors  of  precious  woods.  The  whole  struct- 
ure is  as  beautiful  as  a  dream  and  as  substantial  as  the  native 
rock,  but  the  visionary  shapes  of  a  long  posterity  for  whose 
home  this  mansion  was  intended  have  faded  into  nothingness 
since  the  death  of  the  founder's  only  son.  The  rich  man  gives 
a  glance  at  his  sable  garb  in  one  of  the  splendid  mirrors  of  his 
drawing-room,  and  descending  a  flight  of  lofty  steps,  instinc- 
tively offers  his  arm  to  yonder  poverty-stricken  widow  in  the 
rusty  black  bonnet  and  with  a  check-apron  over  her  patched 
gown.  The  sailor-boy  who  was  her  sole  earthly  stay  was  washed 
overboard  in  a  late  tempest.  This  couple  from  the  palace  and 
the  alms-house  are  but  the  types  of  thousands  more  who  repre- 
sent the  dark  tragedy  of  life  and  seldom  quarrel  for  the  upper 
parts.  Grief  is  such  a  leveller  with  its  own  dignity  and  its  own 
humility  that  the  noble  and  the  peasant,  the  beggar  and  the 
monarch,  will  waive  their  pretensions  to  external  rank  without 
the  officiousness  of  interference  on  our  part.  If  pride — the  in- 
fluence of  the  world's  false  distinctions — remain  in  the  heart, 
then  sorrow  lacks  the  earnestness  which  makes  it  holy  and 


198 


HAWTHORNE 


reverend.  It  loses  its  reality  and  becomes  a  miserable  shadow. 
On  this  ground  we  have  an  opportunity  to  assign  over  multi- 
tudes who  would  willingly  claim  places  here  to  other  parts  of  the 
procession.  If  the  mourner  have  anything  dearer  than  his 
grief,  he  must  seek  his  true  position  elsewhere.  There  are  so 
many  unsubstantial  sorrows  which  the  necessity  of  our  mortal 
state  begets  on  idleness  that  an  observer,  casting  aside  senti- 
ment, is  sometimes  led  to  question  whether  there  be  any  real  woe 
except  absolute  physical  suffering  and  the  loss  of  closest  friends. 
A  crowd  who  exhibit  what  they  deem  to  be  broken  hearts — and 
among  them  many  lovelorn  maids  and  bachelors,  and  men  of 
disappointed  ambition  in  arts  or  politics,  and  the  poor  who  were 
once  rich  or  who  have  sought  to  be  rich  in  vain — the  great  ma- 
jority of  these  may  ask  admittance  in  some  other  fraternity. 
There  is  no  room  here.  Perhaps  we  may  institute  a  separate 
class  where  such  unfortunates  will  naturally  fall  into  the  pro- 
cession. Meanwhile,  let  them  stand  aside  and  patiently  await 
their  time. 

If  our  trumpeter  can  borrow  a  note  from  the  doomsday 
trumpet-blast,  let  him  sound  it  now.  The  dread  alarm  should 
make  the  earth  quake  to  its  centre,  for  the  herald  is  about  to  ad- 
dress mankind  with  a  summons  to  which  even  the  purest  mortal 
may  be  sensible  of  some  faint  responding  echo  in  his  breast. 
In  many  bosoms  it  will  awaken  a  still  small  voice  more  terrible 
than  its  own  reverberating  uproar. 

The  hideous  appeal  has  swept  around  the  globe.  Come,  all 
ye  guilty  ones,  and  rank  yourselves  in  accordance  with  the 
brotherhood  of  crime.  This,  indeed,  is  an  awful  summons.  I 
almost  tremble  to  look  at  the  strange  partnerships  that  begin  to 
be  formed — reluctantly,  but  by  the  invincible  necessity  of  like  to 
like — in  this  part  of  the  procession.  A  forger  from  the  state- 
prison  seizes  the  arm  of  the  distinguished  financier.  How  in- 
dignantly does  the  latter  plead  his  fair  reputation  upon  'Change, 
and  insist  that  his  operations  by  their  magnificence  of  scope  were 
removed  into  quite  another  sphere  of  morality  than  those  of 
his  pitiful  companion !  But  let  him  cut  the  connection  if  he  can. 
Here  comes  a  murderer  with  his  clanking  chains,  and  pairs  him- 
self— horrible  to  tell — with  as  pure  and  upright  a  man  in  all 
observable  respects  as  ever  partook  of  the  consecrated  bread 
and  wine.    He  is  one  of  those — perchance  the  most  hopeless  of 


THE   PROCESSION   OF   LIFE  199 

all  sinners — who  practise  such  an  exemplary  system  of  outward 
duties  that  even  a  deadly  crime  may  be  hidden  from  their  own 
sight  and  remembrance  under  this  unreal  frostwork.  Yet  he 
now  finds  his  place.  Why  do  that  pair  of  flaunting  girls  with 
the  pert,  affected  laugh  and  the  sly  leer  at  the  bystanders  intrude 
themselves  into  the  same  rank  with  yonder  decorous  matron 
and  that  somewhat  prudish  maiden?  Surely  these  poor  creat- 
ures born  to  vice  as  their  sole  and  natural  inheritance  can  be 
no  fit  associates  for  women  who  have  been  guarded  round  about 
by  all  the  proprieties  of  domestic  life,  and  who  could  not  err 
unless  they  first  created  the  opportunity !  Oh,  no !  It  must  be 
merely  the  impertinence  of  those  unblushing  hussies,  and  we  can 
only  wonder  how  such  respectable  ladies  should  have  responded 
to  a  summons  that  was  not  meant  for  them. 

We  shall  make  short  work  of  this  miserable  class,  each  mem- 
ber of  which  is  entitled  to  grasp  any  other  member's  hand  by 
that  vile  degradation  wherein  guilty  error  has  buried  all  alike. 
The  foul  fiend  to  whom  it  properly  belongs  must  relieve  us  of 
our  loathsome  task.  Let  the  bond-servants  of  sin  pass  on.  But 
neither  man  nor  woman  in  whom  good  predominates  will  smile 
or  sneer,  nor  bid  the  **  Rogue's  March  "  be  played,  in  derision 
of  their  array.  Feeling  within  their  breasts  a  shuddering  sym- 
pathy which  at  least  gives  token  of  the  sin  that  might  have  been, 
they  will  thank  God  for  any  place  in  the  grand  procession  of  hu- 
man existence  save  among  those  most  wretched  ones.  Many, 
however,  will  be  astonished  at  the  fatal  impulse  that  drags  them 
thitherward.  Nothing  is  more  remarkable  than  the  various  de- 
ceptions by  which  guilt  conceals  itself  from  the  perpetrator's 
conscience,  and  oftenest,  perhaps,  by  the  splendor  of  its  gar- 
ments. Statesmen,  rulers,  generals,  and  all  men  who -act  over 
an  extensive  sphere,  are  most  liable  to  be  deluded  in  this  way ; 
they  commit  wrong,  devastation  and  murder  on  so  grand  a  scale 
that  it  impresses  them  as  speculative  rather  than  actual,  but  in 
our  procession  we  find  them  linked  in  detestable  conjunction 
with  the  meanest  criminals  whose  deeds  have  the  vulgarity  of 
petty  details.  Here  the  effect  of  circumstance  and  accident  is 
done  away,  and  a  man  finds  his  rank  according  to  the  spirit  of 
his  crime,  in  whatever  shape  it  may  have  been  developed. 

We  have  called  the  evil;  now  let  us  call  the  good.  The 
trumpet's  brazen  throat  should  pour  heavenly  music  over  the 


200  HAWTHORNE 

earth  and  the  herald's  voice  go  forth  with  the  sweetness  of  an 
angel's  accents,  as  if  to  summon  each  upright  man  to  his  re- 
ward. But  how  is  this?  Does  none  answer  to  the  call?  Not 
one ;  for  the  just,  the  pure,  the  true,  and  all  who  might  most 
worthily  obey  it  shrink  sadly  back  as  most  conscious  of  error  and 
imperfection.  Then  let  the  summons  be  to  those  whose  pervad- 
ing principle  is  love.  This  classification  will  embrace  all  the 
truly  good,  and  none  in  whose  souls  there  exists  not  something 
that  may  expand  itself  into  a  heaven  both  of  well-doing  and 
felicity. 

The  first  that  presents  himself  is  a  man  of  wealth  who  has 
bequeathed  the  bulk  of  his  property  to  a  hospital;  his  ghost, 
methinks,  would  have  a  better  right  here  than  his  living  body. 
But  here  they  come,  the  genuine  benefactors  of  their  race. 
Some  have  wandered  about  the  earth  with  pictures  of  bliss  in 
their  imagination  and  with  hearts  that  shrank  sensitively  from 
the  idea  of  pain  and  woe,  yet  have  studied  all  varieties  of  misery 
that  human  nature  can  endure.  The  prison,  the  insane  asylum, 
the  squalid  chamber  of  the  almshouse,  the  manufactory  where 
the  demon  of  machinery  annihilates  the  human  soul,  and  the 
cotton-field  where  God's  image  becomes  a  beast  of  burden — ^to 
these,  and  every  other  scene  where  man  wrongs  or  neglects  his 
brother,  the  apostles  of  humanity  have  penetrated.  This  mis- 
sionary black  with  India's  burning  sunshine  shall  give  his  arm 
to  a  pale-faced  brother  who  has  made  himself  familiar  with  the 
infected  alleys  and  loathsome  haunts  of  vice  in  one  of  our  own 
cities.  The  generous  founder  of  a  college  shall  be  the  partner 
of  a  maiden  lady  of  narrow  substance,  one  of  whose  good  deeds 
it  has  been  to  gather  a  little  school  of  orphan  children.  If  the 
mighty  merchant  whose  benefactions  are  reckoned  by  thou- 
sands of  dollars  deem  himself  worthy,  let  him  join  the  proces- 
sion with  her  whose  love  has  proved  itself  by  watching  at  the 
sick-bed,  and  all  those  lowly  offices  which  bring  her  into  actual 
contact  with  disease  and  wretchedness.  And  with  those  whose 
impulses  have  guided  them  to  benevolent  actions  we  will  rank 
others,  to  whom  providence  has  assigned  a  different  tendency 
and  different  powers.  Men  who  have  spent  their  lives  in  gen- 
erous and  holy  contemplation  for  the  human  race,  those  who, 
by  a  certain  heavenliness  of  spirit,  have  purified  the  atmosphere 
around  them,  and  thus  supplied  a  medium  in  which  good  and 


THE   PROCESSION   OF   LIFE  201 

high  things  may  be  projected  and  performed — give  to  these  a 
lofty  place  among  the  benefactors  of  mankind,  although  no  deed 
such  as  the  world  calls  deeds  may  be  recorded  of  them.  There 
are  some  individuals  of  whom  we  cannot  conceive  it  proper 
that  they  should  apply  their  hands  to  any  earthly  instrument 
or  work  out  any  definite  act,  and  others — perhaps  not  less  high 
— to  whom  it  is  an  essential  attribute  to  labor  in  body  as  well 
as  spirit  for  the  welfare  of  their  brethren.  Thus,  if  we  find  a 
spiritual  sage  whose  unseen  inestimable  influence  has  exalted 
the  moral  standard  of  mankind,  we  will  choose  for  his  compan- 
ion some  poor  laborer  who  has  wrought  for  love  in  the  potato- 
field  of  a  neighbor  poorer  than  himself. 

We  have  summoned  this  various  multitude — and,  to  the  credit 
of  our  nature,  it  is  a  large  one — on  the  principle  of  love.  It  is 
singular,  nevertheless,  to  remark  the  shyness  that  exists  among 
many  members  of  the  present  class,  all  of  whom  we  might  ex- 
pect to  recognize  one  another  by  the  freemasonry  of  mutual 
goodness,  and  to  embrace  like  brethren,  giving  God  thanks  for 
such  various  specimens"  of  human  excellence.  But  it  is  far 
otherwise.  Each  sect  surrounds  its  own  righteousness  with  a 
hedge  of  thorns.  It  is  difficult  for  the  good  Christian  to  ac- 
knowledge the  good  pagan,  almost  impossible  for  the  good 
orthodox  to  grasp  the  hand  of  the  good  Unitarian,  leaving  to 
their  Creator  to  settle  the  matters  in  dispute  and  giving  their 
mutual  efforts  strongly  and  trustingly  to  whatever  right  thing 
is  too  evident  to  be  mistaken.  Then,  again,  though  the  heart  be 
large,  yet  the  mind  is  often  of  such  moderate  dimensions  as  to 
be  exclusively  filled  up  with  one  idea.  When  a  good  man  has 
long  devoted  himself  to  a  particular  kind  of  beneficence,  to  one 
species  of  reform,  he  is  apt  to  become  narrowed  into  the  limits 
of  the  path  wherein  he  treads,  and  to  fancy  that  there  is  no 
other  good  to  be  done  on  earth  but  that  self-same  good  to  which 
he  has  put  his  hand  and  in  the  very  mode  that  best  suits  his  own 
conceptions.  All  else  is  worthless :  his  scheme  must  be  wrought 
out  by  the  united  strength  of  the  whole  world's  stock  of  love, 
or  the  world  is  no  longer  worthy  of  a  position  in  the  universe. 
Moreover,  powerful  truth,  being  the  rich  grape-juice  expressed 
from  the  vineyard  of  the  ages,  has  an  intoxicating  quality  when 
imbibed  by  any  save  a  powerful  intellect,  and  often,  as  it  were, 
impels  the  quaffer  to  quarrel  in  his  cups.    For  such  reasons. 


202  HAWTHORNE 

strange  to  say,  it  is  harder  to  contrive  a  friendly  arrangement  of 
these  brethren  of  love  and  righteousness  in  the  procession  of 
life  than  to  unite  even  the  wicked,  who,  indeed,  are  chained 
together  by  their  crimes.  The  fact  is  too  preposterous  for  tears, 
too  lugubrious  for  laughter. 

But  let  good  men  push  and  elbow  one  another  as  they  may 
during  their  earthly  march,  all  will  be  peace  among  them  when 
the  honorable  array  of  their  procession  shall  tread  on  heavenly 
ground.  There  they  will  doubtless  find  that  they  have  been 
working  each  for  the  other's  cause,  and  that  every  well-delivered 
stroke  which  with  an  honest  purpose  any  mortal  struck,  even 
for  a  narrow  object,  was  indeed  stricken  for  the  universal  cause 
of  good.  Their  own  view  may  be  bounded  by  country,  cre€d, 
profession,  the  diversities  of  individual  character,  but  above 
them  all  is  the  breadth  of  providence.  How  many  who  have 
deemed  themselves  antagonists  will  smile  hereafter  when  they 
look  back  upon  the  world's  wide  harvest-field,  and  perceive  that 
in  unconscious  brotherhood  they  were  helping  to  bind  the  self- 
same sheaf! 

But  come !  The  sun  is  hastening  westward,  while  the  march 
of  human  life,  that  never  paused  before,  is  delayed  by  our  at- 
tempt to  rearrange  its  order.  It  is  desirable  to  find  some  com- 
prehensive principle  that  shall  render  our  task  easier  by  bring- 
ing thousands  into  the  ranks  where  hitherto  we  have  brought 
one.  Therefore  let  the  trumpet,  if  possible,  split  its  brazen 
throat  with  a  louder  note  than  ever,  and  the  herald  summon  all 
mortals  who,  from  whatever  cause,  have  lost,  or  never  found, 
their  proper  places  in  the  world. 

Obedient  to  this  call,  a  great  multitude  come  together,  most 
of  them  with  a  listless  gait  betokening  weariness  of  soul,  yet  with 
a  gleam  of  satisfaction  in  their  faces  at  a  prospect  of  at  length 
reaching  those  positions  which  hitherto  they  have  vainly  sought. 
But  here  will  be  another  disappointment,  for  we  can  attempt 
no  more  than  merely  to  associate  in  one  fraternity  all  who  are 
afflicted  with  the  same  vague  trouble.  Some  great  mistake  in 
life  is  the  chief  condition  of  admittance  into  this  class.  Here  are 
members  of  the  learned  professions  whom  providence  endowed 
with  special  gifts  for  the  plough,  the  forge,  and  the  wheelbar- 
row, or  for  the  routine  of  unintellectual  business.  We  will 
assign  them  as  partners  in  the  march  those  lowly  laborers  and 


THE   PROCESSION   OF   LIFE  203 

handicraftsmen  who  have  pined  as  with  a  dying  thirst  after  the 
unattainable  fountains  of  knowledge.  The  latter  have  lost  less 
than  their  companions,  yet  more,  because  they  deem  it  infinite. 
Perchance  the  two  species  of  unfortunates  may  comfort  one 
another.  Here  are  Quakers  with  the  instinct  of  battle  in  them, 
and  men  of  war  who  should  have  worn  the  broad  brim.  Au- 
thors shall  be  ranked  here  whom  some  freak  of  nature,  making 
game  of  her  poor  children,  had  imbued  with  the  confidence  of 
genius,  and  strong  desire  of  fame,  but'  has  favored  with  no 
corresponding  power,  and  others  whose  lofty  gifts  were  unac- 
companied with  the  faculty  of  expression,  or  any  of  that  earthly 
machinery  by  which  ethereal  endowments  must  be  manifested  to 
mankind.  All  these,  therefore,  are  melancholy  laughing-stocks. 
Next,  here  are  honest  and  well-intentioned  persons  who,  by  a 
want  of  tact,  by  inaccurate  perceptions,  by  a  distorting  imagina- 
tion, have  been  kept  continually  at  cross-purposes  with  the 
world,  and  bewildered  upon  the  path  of  life.  Let  us  see  if  they 
can  confine  themselves  within  the  line  of  our  procession.  In  this 
class,  likewise,  we  must  assign  places  to  those  who  have  encoun- 
tered that  worst  of  iil-success,  a  higher  fortune  than  their  abili- 
ties could  vindicate — writers,  actors,  painters,  the  pets  of  a  day, 
but  whose  laurels  wither,  unrenewed  amid  their  hoary  hair,  pol- 
iticians whom  some  malicious  contingency  of  affairs  has  thrust 
into  conspicuous  station,  where,  while  the  world  stands  gazing 
at  them,  the  dreary  consciousness  of  imbecility  makes  them  curse 
their  birth-hour.  To  such  men  we  give  for  a  companion  him 
whose  rare  talents,  which  perhaps  require  a  revolution  for  their 
exercise,  are  buried  in  the  tomb  of  sluggish  circumstances. 

Not  far  from  these  we  must  find  room  for  one  whose  success 
has  been  of  the  wrong  kind — the  man  who  should  have  lingered 
in  the  cloisters  of  a  university  digging  new  treasures  out  of  the 
Herculaneum  of  antique  lore,  diffusing  depth  and  accuracy  of 
literature  throughout  his  country,  and  thus  making  for  himself 
a  great  and  quiet  fame.  But  the  outward  tendencies  around 
him  have  proved  too  powerful  for  his  inward  nature,  and  have 
drawn  him  into  the  arena  of  political  tumult,  there  to  contend 
at  disadvantage,  whether  front  to  front,  or  side  by  side,  with  the 
brawny  giants  of  actual  life.  He  becomes,  it  may  be,  a  name  for 
brawling  parties  to  bandy  to  and  fro,  a  legislator  of  the  Union, 
a  Governor  of  his  native  State,  an  ambassador  to  the  courts  of 


204  HAWTHORNE 

kings  or  queens,  and  the  world  may  deem  him  a  man  of  happy 
stars.  But  not  so  the  wise,  and  not  so  himself,  when  he  looks 
through  his  experience  and  sighs  to  miss  that  fitness,  the  one 
invaluable  touch  which  makes  all  things  true  and  real,  so  much 
achieved  yet  how  abortive  is  his  life !  Whom  shall  we  choose  for 
his  companion?  Some  weak-framed  blacksmith,  perhaps, 
whose  delicacy  of  muscle  might  have  suited  a  tailor's  shop- 
board  better  than  the  anvil. 

Shall  we  bid  the  trumpet  sound  again?  It  is  hardly  worth 
the  while.  There  remain  a  few  idle  men  of  fortune,  tavern  and 
grog-shop  loungers,  lazzaroni,  old  bachelors,  decaying  maidens 
and  people  of  crooked  intellect  or  temper,  all  of  whom  may  find 
their  like,  or  some  tolerable  approach  to  it,  in  the  plentiful  diver- 
sity of  our  latter  class.  There,  too,  as  his  ultimate  destiny, 
must  we  rank  the  dreamer  who  all  his  life  long  has  cherished  the 
idea  that  he  was  peculiarly  apt  for  something,  but  never  could 
determine  what  it  was,  and  there  the  most  unfortunate  of  men, 
whose  purpose  it  has  been  to  enjoy  life's  pleasures,  but  to  avoid 
a  manful  struggle  with  its  toil  and  sorrow.  The  remainder,  if 
any,  may  connect  themselves  with  whatever  rank  of  the  proces- 
sion they  shall  find  best  adapted  to  their  tastes  and  consciences. 
The  worst  possible  fate  would  be  to  remain  behind  shivering 
in  the  solitude  of  time  while  all  the  world  is  on  the  move  toward 
eternity. 

Our  attempt  to  classify  society  is  now  complete.  The  result 
may  be  anything  but  perfect,  yet  better — to  give  it  the  very 
lowest  phrase — than  the  antique  rule  of  the  herald's  office  or  the 
modern  one  of  the  tax-gatherer,  whereby  the  accidents  and 
superficial  attributes  with  which  the  real  nature  of  individuals 
has  least  to  do  are  acted  upon  as  the  deepest  characteristics  of 
mankind.  Our  task  is  done!  Now  let  the  grand  procession 
move ! 

Yet,  pause  awhile ;  we  had  forgotten  the  chief  marshal. 

Hark!  That  world-wide  swell  of  solemn  music  with  the 
clang  of  a  mighty  bell  breaking  forth  through  its  regulated  up- 
roar announces  his  approach.  He  comes,  a  severe,  sedate,  im- 
movable, dark  rider,  waving  his  truncheon  of  universal  sway  as 
he  passes  along  the  lengthened  line  on  the  pale  horse  of  the 
Revelations.  It  is  Death.  Who  else  could  assume  the  guidance 
of  a  procession  that  comprehends  all  humanity  ?    And  if  some 


THE  PROCESSION   OF   LIFE  205 

among  these  many  millions  should  deem  themselves  classed 
amiss,  yet  let  them  take  to  their  hearts  the  comfortable  truth  that 
Death  levels  us  all  into  one  great  brotherhood,  and  that  another 
state  of  being  will  surely  rectify  the  wrong  of  this.  Then  breathe 
thy  wail  upon  the  earth's  wailing  wind,  thou  band  of  melan- 
choly music  made  up  of  every  sigh  that  the  human  heart  unsat- 
isfied has  uttered  !    There  is  yet  triumph  in  thy  tones. 

And  now  we  move,  beggars  in  their  rags  and  kings  trailing 
the  regal  purple  in  the  dust,  the  warrior's  gleaming  helmet,  the 
priest  in  his  sable  robe,  the  hoary  grandsire  who  has  run  life's 
circle  and  come  back  to  childhood,  the  ruddy  school-boy  with 
his  golden  curls  frisking  along  the  march,  the  artisan's  stuff 
jacket,  the  noble's  star-decorated  coat,  the  whole  presenting  a 
motley  spectacle,  yet  with  a  dusky  grandeur  brooding  over  it. 
Onward,  onward,  into  that  dimness  where  the  lights  of  time 
which  have  blazed  along  the  procession  are  flickering  in  their 
sockets!  And  whither?  We  know  not,  and  Death,  hitherto 
our  leader,  deserts  us  by  the  wayside,  as  the  tramp  of  our  in- 
numerable footsteps  passes  beyond  his  sphere.  He  knows  not 
more  than  we  our  destined  goal,  but  God,  who  made  us,  knows, 
and  will  not  leave  us  on  our  toilsome  and  doubtful  march,  either 
to  wander  in  infinite  uncertainty  or  perish  by  the  way. 


DEFENCE    OF    POETRY 

BY 

HENRY    WADSWORTH     LONGFELLOW 


HENRY   WADSWORTH   LONGFELLOW 

1807— 1882 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow  was  born  in  Portland,  Maine,  in  1807. 
His  father  was  a  prominent  lawyer,  and  had  served  in  Congress,  but 
was  not  wealthy.  At  the  age  of  twelve  he  entered  Bowdoin  College, 
where  he  graduated  in  1825.  One  of  the  trustees  of  the  college  had 
been  greatly  pleased  with  some  of  Longfellow's  work,  and  shortly  after 
graduation  he  was  appointed  to  the  professorship  of  modern  languages, 
then  just  established.  A  suggestion  of  three  years'  study  in  Europe 
as  a  preparation  for  the  position  accompanied  the  appointment.  This 
offer  was  accepted  joyfully,  and  his  stay  abroad  proved  of  the  greatest 
advantage  both  to  himself  and  his  pupils.    He  began  his  duties  in  1829. 

In  1835  he  published  his  first  book,  "  Outre  Mer,"  sketches  of  travel 
abroad,  not  unlike  the  sketches  of  Irving.  The  same  year  he  was  ap- 
pointed professor  of  modern  languages  at  Harvard,  and  again  went 
abroad  in  preparation  for  his  new  duties.  During  this  journey  he  met 
with  his  first  great  sorrow,  in  the  death  of  his  wife.  In  "  The  Foot- 
steps of  Angels,"  and  in  several  other  poems,  he  honors  her  memory. 
In  1839  appeared  the  prose  romance,  "  Hyperion,"  and  the  first  col- 
lection of  his  poems,  "  The  Voices  of  the  Night."  Some  of  the  poems 
published  in  this  collection,  such  as  "  The  Psalm  of  Life  "  and  "  The 
Reaper  and  the  Flowers,"  have  since  become  household  words  in  Amer- 
ica. "  Ballads  and  Other  Poems,"  containing  some  of  his  finest  lyrics 
and  ballads,  followed  two  years  later. 

The  next  year  Longfellow  married  for  the  second  time,  and  acquired 
the  Cragie  House,  in  Cambridge,  for  his  home.  "  The  Belfry  of 
Bruges "  appeared  in  1846,  "  Evangeline "  in  1847,  "  The  Golden 
Legend  "  in  1851,  "  The  Song  of  Hiawatha  "  in  1855,  "  The  Courtship 
of  Miles  Standish"  in  1858,  and  many  others.  He  resigned  his  pro- 
fessorship in  Harvard  in  1854  in  order  to  devote  his  best  energies  to 
literary  work.  In  1861  his  beautiful  wife  perished  before  his  eyes,  a 
tragedy  that  clouded  the  remainder  of  his  life,  and  gave  a  tinge  of 
sadness  to  much  of  his  later  poetry.  He  continued,  however,  to  write 
with  the  same  industry  and  success  as  before,  and  a  new  volume  from 
his  pen  was  brought  out  almost  every  year.  At  the  time  of  his  death, 
which  occurred  in  Cambridge  in  1882,  he  left  two  volumes  in  manu- 
script, which  were  published  as  a  posthumous  work. 

Longfellow  takes  high  rank  among  the  great  poets  of  English  litera- 
ture. Although  rarely  profound,  Longfellow  struck  a  note  that  awak- 
ened responsive  echoes  in  all  hearts.  His  fame  rests  chiefly  on  his  lyrics, 
and  he  is  likely  to  remain  one  of  America's  most  popular  poets.  His 
prose  works,  while  of  minor  importance,  are  marked  by  the  same  grace 
and  delicacy  of  style,  and  are  pervaded  by  the  same  noble  spirit  as  his 
poetry.  Both  in  his  sketches  of  travel  and  in  his  literary  essays  we  are 
impressed  by  his  scholarly  and  felicitous  treatment  of  the  topic  in  ques- 
tion, and  charmed  by  the  even  flow  of  his  style,  always  mellow  and 
sympathetic.  **** 


DEFENCE   OF  POETRY 

GENTLE  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  thou  knewest  what  belonged 
to  a  scholar ;  thou  knewest  what  pains,  what  toil,  what 
travel,  conduct  to  perfection;  w^ell  couldest  thou  give 
every  virtue  his  encouragement,  every  art  his  due,  every  writer 
his  desert,  'cause  none  more  virtuous,  witty,  or  learned  than 
thyself."  ^  This  eulogium  was  bestowed  upon  one  of  the  most 
learned  and  illustrious  men  that  adorned  the  last  half  of  the 
sixteenth  century.  Literary  history  is  full  of  his  praises.  He  is 
spoken  of  as  the  ripe  scholar,  the  able  statesman — "  the  soldier's, 
scholar's,  courtier's  eye,  tongue,  sword  " — the  man  "  whose 
whole  life  was  poetry  put  into  action."  He  and  the  Chevalier 
Bayard  were  the  connecting  links  between  the  ages  of  chivalry 
and  our  own. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney  was  born  at  Penshurst,  in  West  Kent,  on 
November  29,  1554,  and  died  on  October  16,  1586,  from  the 
wound  of  a  musket-shot  received  under  the  walls  of  Zutphen, 
a  town  in  Guelderland,  on  the  banks  of  the  Issel.  When  he  was 
retiring  from  the  field  of  battle  an  incident  occurred  which  well 
illustrates  his  chivalrous  spirit,  and  that  goodness  of  heart  which 
gained  him  the  appellation  of  the  "  Gentle  Sir  Philip  Sidney." 
The  circumstance  has  been  made  the  subject  of  an  historical 
painting  by  West.    It  is  thus  related  by  Lord  Brooke : 

"  The  horse  he  rode  upon  was  rather  furiously  choleric  than 
bravely  proud,  and  so  forced  him  to  forsake  the  field,  but  not  his 
back,  as  the  noblest  and  fittest  bier  to  carry  a  martial  commander 
to  his  grave.  In  which  sad  progress,  passing  along  by  the  rest 
of  the  army  where  his  uncle  the  general  was,  and  being  thirsty 
with  excess  of  bleeding,  he  called  for  drink,  which  was  presently 
brought  him ;  but,  as  he  was  putting  the  bottle  to  his  mouth, 
he  saw  a  poor  soldier  carried  along,  who  had  eaten  his  last  at  the 
same  feast,  ghastly  casting  up  his  eyes  at  the  bottle.  Which 
Sir  Philip  perceiving,  took  it  from  his  head,  before  he  drank,  and 

*  Nash's  "  Pierce  Penniless." 
14  309 


2IO  LONGFELLOW 

delivered  it  to  the  poor  man,  with  these  words,  '  Thy  necessity 
is  yet  greater  than  mine/  " 

The  most  celebrated  productions  of  Sidney's  pen  are  the 
"  Arcadia  "  and  the  ''  Defence  of  Poesy."  The  former  was 
written  during  the  author's  retirement  at  Wilton,  the  residence 
of  his  sister,  the  Countess  of  Pembroke.  Though  so  much  cele- 
brated in  its  day,^  it  is  now  little  known,  and  still  less  read. 
Its  very  subject  prevents  it  from  being  popular  at  present ;  for 
now  the  pastoral  reed  seems  entirely  thrown  aside.  The  muses 
no  longer  haunt  the  groves  of  Arcadia.  The  shepherd's  song — 
the  sound  of  oaten  pipe,  and  the  scenes  of  pastoral  loves  and 
jealousies,  are  no  becoming  themes  for  the  spirit  of  the  age. 
Few  at  present  take  for  their  motto,  "  Uumina  amo  sihasque 
inglorhis,"  and,  consequently,  few  read  the  "  Arcadia." 

The  "  Defence  of  Poesy  "  is  a  work  of  rare  merit.  It  is  a 
golden  little  volume,  which  the  scholar  may  lay  beneath  his 
pillow,  as  Chrysostom  did  the  works  of  Aristophanes.  We  do 
not,  however,  mean  to  analyze  it  in  this  place ;  but  recommend 
to  our  readers  to  purchase  this  "  sweet  food  of  sweetly  uttered 
knowledge."  It  will  be  read  with  delight  by  all  who  have  a 
taste  for  the  true  beauties  of  poetry ;  and  may  go  far  to  remove 
the  prejudices  of  those  who  have  not.  To  this  latter  class  we  ad- 
dress the  concluding  remarks  of  the  author : 

'*  So  that  since  the  ever-praiseworthy  poesy  is  full  of  virtue, 
breeding  delightfulness,  and  void  of  no  gift  that  ought  to  be 
in  the  noble  name  of  learning ;  since  the  blames  laid  against  it 
are  either  false  or  feeble ;  since  the  cause  why  it  is  not  esteemed 
in  England  is  the  fault  of  poet-apes,  not  poets;  since,  lastly, 
our  tongue  is  most  fit  to  honor  poesy,  and  to  be  honored  by 
poesy ;  I  conjure  you  all  that  have  had  the  evil  luck  to  read  this 
ink-wasting  toy  of  mine,  even  in  the  name  of  the  nine  muses, 
no  more  to  scorn  the  sacred  mysteries  of  poesy;  no  more  to 
laugh  at  the  name  of  poets,  as  though  they  were  next  inheritors 
to  fools ;  no  more  to  jest  at  the  reverend  title  of  *  a  rhymer ' ; 
but  to  believe,  with  Aristotle,  that  they  were  the  ancient  treas- 

2  Many   of  our  readers   will   recollect  eloquence,  the  breath  of  the  muses,  the 

the    high-wrought    eulogium  of  Harvey  honey-bee   of   the    daintyest    flowers    of 

Pierce,  when  he  consigned  the  work  to  witt  and  arte;  the  pith  of  morale  and  in- 

immortality:  "  Live  ever  sweete,  sweete  tellectual   virtues,   the   arme   of   Bellona 

booke:   the  simple  image  of  his  gentle  in  the  field,  the  tongue  of  Suada  in  the 

witt;  and  the  golden  pillar  of  his  noble  chamber,  the  sprite  of  Practice  in  esse, 

courage;  and  ever  notify  unto  the  world  and  the  paragon  of  excellency  in  print." 
that   thy    writer    was    the    secretary   of 


DEFENCE   OF  POETRY  211 

urers  of  the  Grecians'  divinity ;  to  believe,  with  Bembus,  that 
they  were  the  first  bringers  in  of  all  civility;  to  believe,  with 
Scaliger,  that  no  philosopher's  precepts  can  sooner  make  you 
an  honest  man,  than  the  reading  of  Vergil;  to  believe,  with 
Clauserus,  the  translator  of  Cornutus,  that  it  pleased  the  heav- 
enly deity  by  Hesiod  and  Homer,  under  the  veil  of  fables,  to  give 
us  all  knowledge,  logic,  rhetoric,  philosophy,  natural  and  moral, 
and  ^  quid  nonf '  to  believe,  with  me,  that  there  are  many 
mysteries  contained  in  poetry,  which  of  purpose  were  written 
darkly,  lest  by  profane  wits  it  should  be  abused;  to  believe, 
with  Landin,  that  they  are  so  beloved  of  the  gods,  that  whatso- 
ever they  write  proceeds  of  a  divine  fury ;  lastly,  to  believe  them- 
selves, when  they  tell  you  they  will  make  you  immortal  by  their 
verses. 

"  Thus  doing,  your  names  shall  flourish  in  the  printers'  shops ; 
thus  doing,  you  shall  be  of  kin  to  many  a  poetical  preface ;  thus 
doing,  you  shall  be  most  fair,  most  rich,  most  wise,  most  all; 
you  shall  dwell  upon  superlatives;  thus  doing,  though  you  be 
*  libertino  pafre  natus/  you  shall  suddenly  grow  *  Herculea 
proles ' — 

*  Si  quid  mea  carmina  possunt '  : 

thus  doing,  your  soul  shall  be  placed  with  Dante's  Beatrix,  or 
Vergil's  Anchises. 

"  But  if  (fie  of  such  a  but!)  you  be  born  so  near  the  dull- 
making  cataract  of  Nilus  that  you  cannot  hear  the  planet-like 
music  of  poetry;  if  you  have  so  earth-creeping  a  mind  that 
it  cannot  lift  itself  up  to  look  to  the  sky  of  poetry,  or  rather,  by 
a  certain  rustical  disdain,  will  become  such  a  mome  as  to  be  a 
Momus  of  poetry ;  then,  though  I  will  not  wish  unto  you  the 
ass's  ears  of  Midas,  nor  to  be  driven  by  a  poet's  verses,  as  Bu- 
bonax  was,  to  hang  himself ;  nor  to  be  rhymed  to  death,  as  is 
said  to  be  done  in  Ireland ;  yet  thus  much  curse  I  must  send  you 
in  the  behalf  of  all  poets ;  that  while  you  live,  you  live  in  love, 
and  never  get  favor,  for  lacking  skill  of  a  sonnet ;  and  when 
you  die,  your  memory  die  from  the  earth  for  want  of  an  epitaph." 

As  no  *'  Apologie  for  Poetrie  "  has  appeared  among  us,  we 
hope  that  Sir  Philip  Sidney's  "  Defence  "  will  be  widely  read 
and  long  remembered.  O  that  in  our  country  it  might  be  the 
harbinger  of  as  bright  an  intellectual  day  as  it  was  in  his  own ! 


212  LONGFELLOW 

With  us,  the  spirit  of  the  age  is  clamorous  for  utility — for  vis- 
ible, tangible  utility — for  bare,  brawny,  muscular  utility.  We 
would  be  roused  to  action  by  the  voice  of  the  populace,  and  the 
sounds  of  the  crowded  mart,  and  not  "  lulled  asleep  in  shady 
idleness  with  poet's  pastimes."  We  are  swallowed  up  in  schemes 
for  gain,  and  engrossed  with  contrivances  for  bodily  enjoyments, 
as  if  this  particle  of  dust  were  immortal — as  if  the  soul  needed 
no  aliment,  and  the  mind  no  raiment.  We  glory  in  the  extent 
of  our  territory,  in  our  rapidly  increasing  population,  in  our 
agricultural  privileges,  and  our  commercial  advantages.  We 
boast  of  the  magnificence  and  beauty  of  our  natural  scenery — 
of  the  various  climates  of  our  sky — the  summers  of  our  north- 
ern regions — the  salubrious  winters  of  the  south,  and  of  the 
various  products  of  our  soil,  from  the  pines  of  our  northern 
highlands  to  the  palm-tree  and  aloes  of  our  southern  frontier. 
We  boast  of  the  increase  and  extent  of  our  physical  strength, 
the  sound  of  populous  cities,  breaking  the  silence  and  solitude 
of  our  western  Territories — plantations  conquered  from  the 
forest,  and  gardens  springing  up  in  the  wilderness.  Yet  the 
true  glory  of  a  nation  consists  not  in  the  extent  of  its  territory, 
the  pomp  of  its  forests,  the  majesty  of  its  rivers,  the  height  of  its 
mountains,  and  the  beauty  of  its  sky,  but  in  the  extent  of  its 
mental  power — the  majesty  of  its  intellect — the  height,  and 
depth,  and  purity  of  its  moral  nature.  It  consists  not  in  what 
nature  has  given  to  the  body,  but  in  what  nature  and  education 
have  given  to  the  mind — not  in  the  world  around  us,  but  in  the 
world  within  us — not  in  the  circumstances  of  fortune,  but  in 
the  attributes  of  the  soul — not  in  the  corruptible,  transitory,  and 
perishable  forms  of  matter,  but  in  the  incorruptible,  the  perma- 
nent, the  imperishable  mind.  True  greatness  is  the  greatness 
of  the  mind — the  true  glory  of  a  nation  is  moral  and  intellectual 
preeminence. 

But  still  the  main  current  of  education  runs  in  the  wide  and 
not  well-defined  channel  of  im.mediate  and  practical  utility.  The 
main  point  is  how  to  make  the  greatest  progress  in  worldly 
prosperity — ^how  to  advance  most  rapidly  in  the  career  of  gain. 
This,  perhaps,  is  necessarily  the  case  to  a  certain  extent  in  a 
country  where  every  man  is  taught  to  rely  upon  his  own  exer- 
tions for  a  livelihood,  and  is  the  artificer  of  his  own  fortune  and 
estate.    But  it  ought  not  to  be  exclusively  so.    We  ought  not, 


DEFENCE   OF   POETRY 


213 


in  the  pursuit  of  wealth  and  worldly  honor,  to  forget  those  em- 
bellishments of  the  mind  and  the  heart  which  sweeten  social  in- 
tercourse and  improve  the  condition  of  society.  And  yet,  in  the 
language  of  Dr.  Paley,  "  Many  of  us  are  brought  up  with  this 
world  set  before  us,  and  nothing  else.  Whatever  promotes  this 
world's  prosperity  is  praised ;  whatever  hurts  and  obstructs  this 
world's  prosperity  is  blamed ;  and  there  all  praise  and  censure 
end.  We  see  mankind  about  us  in  motion  and  action,  but  all 
these  motions  and  actions  directed  to  worldly  objects.  We  hear 
their  conversation,  but  it  is  all  the  same  way.  And  this  is 
what  we  see  and  hear  from  the  first :  The  views  which  are  con- 
tinually placed  before  our  eyes  regard  this  life  alone  and  its 
interests.  Can  it  then  be  wondered  at  that  an  early  worldly- 
mindedness  is  bred  in  our  hearts  so  strong  as  to  shut  out  heaven- 
ly-mindedness  entirely  ?  "  And  this,  though  not  in  so  many 
words,  yet  in  fact  and  in  its  practical  tendency,  is  the  popular 
doctrine  of  utility. 

Now,  under  correction  be  it  said,  we  are  much  led  astray  by 
this  word  utility.  There  is  hardly  a  word  in  our  language  whose 
meaning  is  so  vague,  and  so  often  misunderstood  and  misap- 
plied. We  too  often  limit  its  application  to  those  acquisitions 
and  pursuits  which  are  of  immediate  and  visible  profit  to  our- 
selves and  the  community ;  regarding  as  comparatively  or  ut- 
terly useless  many  others  which,  though  more  remote  in  their 
effects  and  more  imperceptible  in  their  operation,  are,  notwith- 
standing, higher  in  their  aim,  wider  in  their  influence,  more 
certain  in  their  results,  and  more  intimately  connected  with  the 
common  weal.  We  are  too  apt  to  think  that  nothing  can  be  use- 
ful but  what  is  done  with  a  noise,  at  noonday,  and  at  the  corners 
of  the  streets ;  as  if  action  and  utility  were  synonymous,  and  it 
were  not  as  useless  to  act  without  thinking  as  it  is  to  think  with- 
out acting.  But  the  truth  is,  the  word  utility  has  a  wider  signifi- 
cation than  this.  It  embraces  in  its  proper  definition  whatever 
contributes  to  our  happiness ;  and  thus  includes  many  of  those 
arts  and  sciences,  many  of  those  secret  studies  and  solitary  avo- 
cations which  are  generally  regarded  either  as  useless  or  as  abso- 
lutely injurious  to  society.  Not  he  alone  does  service  to  the  state 
whose  wisdom  guides  her  councils  at  home,  nor  he  whose  voice 
asserts  her  dignity  abroad.  A  thousand  little  rills,  springing 
up  in  the  retired  walks  of  life,  go  to  swell  the  rushing  tide  of 


214  LONGFELLOW 

national  glory  and"  prosperity ;  and  whoever  in  the  solitude  of 
his  chamber,  and  by  even  a  single  effort  of  his  mind,  has  added 
to  the  intellectual  preeminence  of  his  country,  has  not  lived  in 
vain,  nor  to  himself  alone.  Does  not  the  pen  of  the  historian 
perpetuate  the  fame  of  the  hero  and  the  statesman  ?  Do  not  their 
names  live  in  the  song  of  the  bard  ?  Do  not  the  pencil  and  the 
chisel  touch  the  soul  while  they  delight  the  eye  ?  Does  not  the 
spirit  of  the  patriot  and  the  sage,  looking  from  the  painted  can- 
vas, or  eloquent  from  the  marble  lip,  fill  our  hearts  with  venera- 
tion for  all  that  is  great  in  intellect  and  godlike  in  virtue? 

If  this  be  true,  then  are  the  ornamental  arts  of  life  not  merely 
ornamental,  but  at  the  same  time  highly  useful ;  and  poetry  and 
the  fine  arts  become  the  instruction  as  well  as  the  amusement  of 
mankind.  They  will  not  till  our  lands,  nor  freight  our  ships, 
nor  fill  our  granaries  and  our  coffers ;  but  they  will  enrich  the 
heart,  freight  the  understanding,  and  make  up  the  garnered 
fulness  of  the  mind.  And  this  we  hold  to  be  the  true  view  of  the 
subject. 

Among  the  barbarous  nations,  which  in  the  early  centuries 
of  our  era  overran  the  south  of  Europe,  the  most  contumelious 
epithet  which  could  be  applied  to  a  man  was  to  call  him  a 
Roman.  All  the  corruption  and  degeneracy  of  the  Western  Em- 
pire were  associated,  in  the  minds  of  the  Gothic  tribes,  with  a 
love  of  letters  and  the  fine  arts.  So  far  did  this  belief  influence 
their  practice  that  they  would  not  suffer  their  children  to  be 
instructed  in  the  learning  of  the  south.  "  Instruction  in  the  sci- 
ences," said  they,  "  tends  to  corrupt,  enervate,  and  depress  the 
mind ;  and  he  who  has  been  accustomed  to  tremble  under  the 
rod  of  a  pedagogue  will  never  look  on  a  sword  or  a  spear  with 
an  undaunted  eye."  ^  We  apprehend  that  there  are  some,  and 
indeed  not  a  few  in  our  active  community,  who  hold  the  appella- 
tion of  scholar  and  man  of  letters  in  as  little  repute  as  did  our 
Gothic  ancestors  that  of  Roman ;  associating  with  it  about  the 
same  ideas  of  effeminacy  and  inefficiency.  They  think  that  the 
learning  of  books  is  not  wisdom ;  that  study  unfits  a  man  for 
action;  that  poetry  and  nonsense  are  convertible  terms;  that 
literature  begets  an  effeminate  and  craven  spirit ;  in  a  word,  that 
the  dust  and  cobwebs  of  a  library  are  a  kind  of  armor  which 

'  "  Procop.  de  bello  Gothor."  apud  Robertson,  "  History  of  Charles  V,"  vol.  i., 
p.  234' 


DEFENCE   OF   POETRY  215 

will  not  stand  long  against  the  hard  knocks  of  the  "  bone  and 
muscle  of  the  state  "  and  the  "  huge  two-fisted  sway  "  of  the 
stump  orator.  Whenever  intellect  is  called  into  action,  they 
would  have  the  mind  display  a  rough  and  natural  energy — 
strength,  straightforward  strength,  untutored  in  the  rules  of 
art,  and  unadorned  by  elegant  and  courtly  erudition.  They 
want  the  stirring  voice  of  Demosthenes,  accustomed  to  the  roar 
of  the  tempest  and  the  dashing  of  the  sea  upon  its  hollow-sound- 
ing shore,  rather  than  the  winning  eloquence  of  Phalereus, 
coming  into  the  sun  and  dust  of  the  battle,  not  from  the  martial 
tent  of  the  soldier,  but  from  the  philosophic  shades  of  Theo- 
phrastus. 

But  against  no  branch  of  scholarship  is  the  cry  so  loud  as 
against  poetry,  ''  the  quintessence,  or  rather  the  luxury  of  all 
learning."  Its  enemies  pretend  that  it  is  injurious  both  to  the 
mind  and  the  heart;  that  it  incapacitates  us  for  the  severer 
discipline  of  professional  study ;  and  that,  by  exciting  the  feel- 
ings and  misdirecting  the  imagination,  it  unfits  us  for  the  com- 
mon duties  of  life  and  the  intercourse  of  this  matter-of-fact 
world.  And  yet  such  men  have  lived,  as  Homer,  and  Dante,  and 
Milton — poets  and  scholars  whose  minds  were  bathed  in  song, 
and  yet  not  weakened ;  men  who  severally  carried  forward  the 
spirit  of  their  age,  who  soared  upward  on  the  wings  of  poetry, 
and  yet  were  not  unfitted  to  penetrate  the  deepest  recesses  of  the 
human  soul  and  search  out  the  hidden  treasures  of  wisdom  and 
the  secret  springs  of  thought,  feeling,  and  action.  None  fought 
more  bravely  at  Marathon,  Salamis,  and  Platsea  than  did  the 
poet  ^Eschylus.  Richard  Coeur-de-Lion  was  a  poet;  but  his 
boast  was  in  his  very  song: 

"  Bon  guerrier  a  I'estendart 
Trouvaretz  le  Roi  Richard." 

Ercilla  and  Garcilaso  were  poets ;  but  the  great  epic  of  Spain 
was  written  in  the  soldier's  tent  and  on  the  field  of  battle,  and 
the  descendant  of  the  Incas  was  slain  in  the  assault  of  a  castle 
in  the  south  of  France.  Cervantes  lost  an  arm  at  the  battle  of 
Lepanto,  and  Sir  Philip  Sidney  was  the  breathing  reality  of  the 
poet's  dream,  a  living  and  glorious  proof  that  poetry  neither 
enervates  the  mind  nor  unfits  us  for  the  practical  duties  of  life. 
Nor  is  it  less  true  that  the  legitimate  tendency  of  poetry  is  to 


2i6  LONGFELLOW 

exalt  rather  than  to  debase — to  purify  rather  than  to  corrupt. 
Read  the  inspired  pages  of  the  Hebrew  prophets ;  the  eloquent 
aspirations  of  the  Psalmist !  Where  did  ever  the  spirit  of  devo- 
tion bear  up  the  soul  more  steadily  and  loftily  than  in  the  lan- 
guage of  their  poetry?  And  where  has  poetry  been  more. ex- 
alted, more  spirit-stirring,  more  admirable,  or  more  beautiful, 
than  when  thus  soaring  upward  on  the  wings  of  sublime  devo- 
tion, the  darkness  and  shadow^s  of  earth  beneath  it,  and  from 
above  the  brightness  of  an  opened  heaven  pouring  around  it  ?  It 
is  true  the  poetic  talent  may  be,  for  it  has  been,  most  lamentably 
perverted.  But  when  poetry  is  thus  perverted — when  it  thus 
forgets  its  native  sky  to  grovel  in  what  is  base,  sensual,  and 
depraved — though  it  may  not  have  lost  all  its  original  bright- 
ness, nor  appear  less  than  "  the  excess  of  glory  obscured,"  yet 
its  birthright  has  been  sold,  its  strength  has  been  blasted,  and  its 
spirit  wears  "  deep  scars  of  thunder." 

It  does  not,  then,  appear  to  be  the  necessary  nor  the  natural 
tendency  of  poetry  to  enervate  the  mind,  corrupt  the  heart,  or 
incapacitate  us  for  performing  the  private  and  public  duties  of 
life.  On  the  contrary,  it  may  be  made,  and  should  be  made,  an 
instrument  for  improving  the  condition  of  society,  and  advanc- 
ing the  great  purpose  of  human  happiness.  Man  must  have 
his  hours  of  meditation  as  well  as  of  action.  The  unities  of 
time  are  not  so  well  preserved  in  the  great  drama  but  that  mo- 
ments will  occur  when  the  stage  must  be  left  vacant,  and  even 
the  busiest  actors  pass  behind  the  scenes.  There  will  be  eddies 
in  the  stream  of  life,  though  the  main  current  sweeps  steadily 
onward,  till  "  it  pours  in  full  cataract  over  the  grave."  There 
are  times  when  both  mind  and  body  are  worn  down  by  the  sever- 
ity of  daily  toil ;  when  the  grasshopper  is  a  burden,  and,  thirsty 
with  the  heat  of  labor,  the  spirit  longs  for  the  waters  of  Shiloah 
that  go  softly.  At  such  seasons  both  mind  and  body  should  un- 
bend themselves;  they  should  be  set  free  from  the  yoke  of 
their  customary  service,  and  thought  take  some  other  direction 
than  that  of  the  beaten,  dusty  thoroughfare  of  business.  And 
there  are  times,  too,  when  the  divinity  stirs  within  us ;  when  the 
soul  abstracts  herself  from  the  world,  and  the  slow  and  regular 
motions  of  earthly  business  do  not  keep  pace  with  the  heaven- 
directed  mind.  Then  earth  lets  go  her  hold ;  the  soul  feels  her- 
self more  akin  to  heaven ;  and  soaring  upward,  the  denizen  of 


DEFENCE   OF   POETRY  217 

her  native  sky,  she  "  begins  to  reason  Hke  herself,  and  to  dis- 
course in  a  strain  above  mortality."  Call,  if  you  will,  such 
thoughts  and  feelings  the  dreams  of  the  imagination ;  yet  they 
are  no  unprofitable  dreams.  Such  moments  of  silence  and  medi- 
tation are  often  those  of  the  greatest  utility  to  ourselves  and 
others.  Yes,  we  would  dream  awhile,  that  the  spirit  is  not  al- 
ways the  bondman  of  the  flesh;  that  there  is  something  im- 
mortal in  us,  something  which,  amid  the  din  of  life,  urges  us  to 
aspire  after  the  attributes  of  a  more  spiritual  nature.  Let  the 
cares  and  business  of  the  world  sometimes  sleep,  for  this  sleep  is 
the  awakening  of  the  soul. 

To  fill  up  these  interludes  of  life  with  a  song,  that  shall  soothe 
our  worldly  passions  and  inspire  us  with  a  love  of  heaven  and 
virtue,  seems  to  be  the  peculiar  province  of  poetry.  On  this 
moral  influence  of  the  poetic  art,  there  is  a  beautifully  written 
passage  in  the  "  Defence  of  Poesy  " : 

"  The  philosopher  showeth  you  the  way,  he  informeth  you  of 
the  particularities,  as  well  of  the  tediousness  of  the  way  and  of 
the  pleasant  lodging  you  shall  have  when  your  journey  is  ended, 
as  of  the  many  by-turnings  that  may  divert  you  from  your 
way ;  but  this  is  to  no  man,  but  to  him  that  will  read  him,  and 
read  him  with  attentive,  studious  painfulness;  which  constant 
desire  whosoever  hath  in  him  hath  already  passed  half  the  hard- 
ness of  the  way,  and  therefore  is  beholden  to  the  philosopher  but 
for  the  other  half.  Nay,  truly,  learned  men  have  learnedly 
thought  that,  where  once  reason  hath  so  much  overmastered 
passion  as  that  the  mind  hath  a  free  desire  to  do  well,  the  inward 
light  each  mind  hath  in  itself  is  as  good  as  a  philosopher's  book ; 
since  in  nature  we  know  it  is  well  to  do  well,  and  what  is  well 
and  what  is  evil,  although  not  in  the  words  of  art  which  philos- 
ophers bestow  upon  us ;  for  out  of  natural  conceit  the  philoso- 
phers drew  it ;  but  to  be  moved  to  do  that  which  we  know,  or  to 
be  moved  with  desire  to  know, '  hoc  opus,  hie  labor  est/ 

"  Now,  therein,  of  all  sciences  (I  speak  still  of  human,  and 
according  to  the  human  conceit)  is  our  poet  the  monarch.  For 
he  doth  not  only  show  the  way,  but  giveth  so  sweet  a  prospect 
into  the  way  as  will  entice  any  man  to  enter  into  it;  nay,  he 
doth,  as  if  your  journey  should  lie  through  a  fair  vineyard,  at 
the  very  first  give  you  a  cluster  of  grapes,  that  full  of  that  taste 
you  may  long  to  pass  farther.    He  beginneth  not  with  obscure 


2i8  LONGFELLOW 

definitions,  which  must  blur  the  margin  with  interpretations,  and 
load  the  memory  with  doubtfulness,  but  he  cometh  to  you  with 
words  set  in  delightful  proportion,  either  accompanied  with,  or 
prepared  for,  the  well-enchanting  skill  of  music;  and  with  a 
tale,  forsooth,  he  cometh  unto  you,  with  a  tale  which  holdeth 
children  from  play,  and  old  men  from  the  chimney-corner ;  and, 
pretending  no  more,  doth  intend  the  winning  of  the  mind  from 
wickedness  to  virtue." 

In  fine,  we  think  that  all  the  popular  objections  against  poetry 
may  be  not  only  satisfactorily  but  triumphantly  answered.  They 
are  all  founded  upon  its  abuse,  and  not  upon  its  natural  and 
legitimate  tendencies.  Indeed,  popular  judgment  has  seldom 
fallen  into  a  greater  error  than  that  of  supposing  that  poetry 
must  necessarily,  and  from  its  very  nature,  convey  false  and 
therefore  injurious  impressions.  The  error  lies  in  not  discrimi- 
nating between  what  is  true  to  nature  and  what  is  true  to  fact. 
From  the  very  nature  of  things,  neither  poetry  nor  any  one  of 
the  imitative  arts  can  in  itself  be  false.  They  can  be  false  no 
further  than,  by  the  imperfection  of  human  skill,  they  convey 
to  our  minds  imperfect  and  garbled  views  of  what  they  represent. 
Hence  a  painting  or  poetical  description  may  be  true  to  nature, 
and  yet  false  in  point  of  fact.  The  canvas  before  you  may  rep- 
resent a  scene  in  which  every  individual  feature  of  the  landscape 
shall  be  true  to  nature — the  tree,  the  waterfall,  the  distant  moun- 
tain— every  object  there  shall  be  an  exact  copy  of  an  original 
that  has  a  real  existence,  and  yet  the  scene  itself  may  be  abso- 
lutely false  in  point  of  fact.  Such  a  scene,  with  the  features  of 
the  landscape  combined  precisely  in  the  way  represented,  may 
exist  nowhere  but  in  the  imagination  of  the  artist.  The  statue 
of  the  Venus  de*  Medici  is  the  perfection  of  female  beauty ;  and 
every  individual  feature  had  its  living  original.  Still,  the  statue 
itself  had  no  living  archetype.  It  is  true  to  nature,  but  it  is  not 
true  to  fact.  So  with  the  stage.  The  scene  represented,  the 
characters  introduced,  the  plot  of  the  piece,  and  the  action  of  the 
performers  may  all  be  conformable  to  nature,  and  yet  not  be 
conformable  to  any  preexisting  reality.  The  characters  there 
personified  may  never  have  existed ;  the  events  represented  may 
never  have  transpired.  And  so,  too,  with  poetry.  The  scenes 
and  events  it  describes,  the  characters  and  passions  it  portrays, 
may  all  be  natural  though  not  real.    Thus,  in  a  certain  sense. 


DEFENCE   OF   POETRY 


219 


fiction  itself  may  be  true — true  to  the  nature  of  things,  and  con- 
sequently true  in  the  impressions  it  conveys.  And  hence  the 
reason  why  fiction  has  always  been  made  so  subservient  to  the 
cause  of  truth. 

Allowing,  then,  that  poetry  is  nothing  but  fiction,  that  all  it 
describes  is  false  in  point  of  fact,  still  its  elements  have  a  real 
existence,  and  the  impressions  we  receive  can  be  erroneous  so 
far  only  as  the  views  presented  to  the  mind  are  garbled  and  false 
to  nature.  And  this  is  a  fault  incident  to  the  artist,  and  not 
inherent  in  the  art  itself.  So  that  we  may  fairly  conclude,  from 
these  considerations,  that  the  natural  tendency  of  poetry  is  to 
give  us  correct  moral  impressions,  and  thereby  advance  the 
cause  of  truth  and  the  improvement  of  society. 

There  is  another  very  important  view  of  the  subject  arising 
out  of  the  origin  and  nature  of  poetry,  and  its  intimate  connec- 
tion with  individual  character  and  the  character  of  society. 

Tlie  origin  of  poetry  loses  itself  in  the  shades  of  a  remote  and 
fabulous  age,  of  which  we  have  only  vague  and  uncertain  tradi- 
tions. Its  fountain,  like  that  of  the  river  of  the  desert,  springs 
up  in  a  distant  and  unknown  region,  the  theme  of  visionary 
story  and  the  subject  of  curious  speculation.  Doubtless,  how- 
ever, it  originated  amid  the  scenes  of  pastoral  life  and  in  the 
quiet  and  repose  of  a  golden  age.  There  is  something  in  the  soft 
melancholy  of  the  groves  which  pervades  the  heart  and  kindles 
the  imagination.  Their  retirement  is  favorable  to  the  musings 
of  the  poetic  mind.  The  trees  that  waved  their  leafy  branches 
to  the  summer  wind  or  heaved  and  groaned  beneath  the  passing 
storm,  the  shadow  moving  on  the  grass,  the  bubbling  brook,  the 
insect  skimming  on  its  surface,  the  receding  valley  and  the  dis- 
tant mountain — these  would  be  some  of  the  elements  of  pas- 
toral song.  Its  subject  would  naturally  be  the  complaint  of  a 
shepherd  and  the  charms  of  some  gentle  shepherdess — 

"  A  happy  soul,  that  all  the  way 
To  heaven  hath  a  summer's  day." 

It  is  natural,  too,  that  the  imagination,  familiar  with  the  out- 
ward world,  and  connecting  the  idea  of  the  changing  seasons  and 
the  spontaneous  fruits  of  the  earth  with  the  agency  of  some  un- 
known power  that  regulated  and  produced  them,  should  sug- 
gest the  thought  of  presiding  deities,  propitious  in  the  smiling 


220  LONGFELLOW 

sky  and  adverse  in  the  storm.  The  fountain  that  gushed  up  as 
if  to  meet  the  thirsty  Hp  was  made  the  dweUing  of  a  nymph ;  the 
grove  that  lent  its  shelter  and  repose  from  the  heat  of  noon  be- 
came the  abode  of  dryads ;  a  god  presided  over  shepherds  and 
their  flocks,  and  a  goddess  shook  the  yellow  harvest  from  her 
lap.  These  deities  were  propitiated  by  songs  and  festive  rites. 
And  thus  poetry  added  new  charms  to  the  simplicity  and  repose 
of  bucolic  life,  and  the  poet  mingled  in  his  verse  the  delights  of 
rural  ease  and  the  praise  of  the  rural  deities  which  bestowed 
them. 

Such  was  poetry  in  those  happy  ages,  when,  camps  and  courts 
unknown,  life  was  itself  an  eclogue.  But  in  later  days  it  sang 
the  achievements  of  Grecian  and  Roman  heroes,  and  pealed  in 
the  war-song  of  the  Gothic  Skald.  These  early  essays  were  rude 
and  unpolished.  As  nations  advanced  in  civilization  and  refine- 
ment poetry  advanced  with  them.  In  each  successive  age  it  be- 
came the  image  of  their  thoughts  and  feelings,  of  their  manners, 
customs,  and  characters ;  for  poetry  is  but  the  warm  expression 
of  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  a  people,  and  we  speak  of  it  as 
being  national  when  the  character  of  a  nation  shines  visibly  and 
distinctly  through  it. 

Thus,  for  example,  Castilian  poetry  is  characterized  by  sound- 
ing expressions,  and  that  pomp  and  majesty  so  peculiar  to  Span- 
ish manners  and  character.  On  the  other  hand,  English  poetry 
possesses  in  a  high  degree  the  charms  of  rural  and  moral  feeling ; 
it  flows  onward  like  a  woodland  stream,  in  which  we  see  the 
reflection  of  the  sylvan  landscape  and  of  the  heaven  above  us. 

It  is  from  this  intimate  connection  of  poetry  with  the  manners, 
customs,  and  characters  of  nations,  that  one  of  its  highest  uses 
is  drawn.  The  impressions  produced  by  poetry  upon  national 
character,  at  any  period,  are  again  reproduced,  and  give  a  more 
pronounced  and  individual  character  to  the  poetry  of  a  subse- 
quent period.  And  hence  it  is  that  the  poetry  of  a  nation  some- 
times throws  so  strong  a  light  upon  the  page  of  its  history,  and 
renders  luminous  those  obscure  passages  which  often  baffle  the 
long-searching  eye  of  studious  erudition.  In  this  view,  poetry 
assumes  new  importance  with  all  who  search  for  historic  truth. 
Besides,  the  view  of  the  various  fluctuations  of  the  human  mind, 
as  exhibited,  not  in  history,  but  in  the  poetry  of  successive 
epochs,  is  more  interesting,  and  less  liable  to  convey  erroneous 


DEFENCE   OF   POETRY  221 

impressions,  than  any  record  of  mere  events.  The  great  ad- 
vantage drawn  from  the  study  of  history  is  not  to  treasure  up 
in  the  mind  a  multitude  of  disconnected  facts,  but  from  these 
facts  to  derive  some  conclusions,  tending  to  illustrate  the  move- 
ments of  the  general  mind,  the  progress  of  society,  the  manners, 
customs,  and  institutions,  the  moral  and  intellectual  character 
of  mankind  in  different  nations,  at  different  times,  and  under  the 
operation  of  different  circumstances.  Historic  facts  are  chiefly 
valuable  as  exhibiting  intellectual  phenomena.  And,  so  far 
as  poetry  exhibits  these  phenomena  more  perfectly  and  dis- 
tinctly than  history  does,  so  far  is  it  superior  to  history.  The 
history  of  a  nation  is  the  external  symbol  of  its  character ;  from 
it  we  reason  back  to  the  spirit  of  the  age  that  fashioned  its  shad- 
owy outline.  But  poetry  is  the  spirit  of  the  age  itself — em- 
bodied in  the  forms  of  language,  and  speaking  in  a  voice  that  is 
audible  to  the  external  as  well  as  the  internal  sense.  The  one 
makes  known  the  impulses  of  the  popular  mind,  through  cer- 
tain events  resulting  from  them;  the  other  displays  the  more 
immediate  presence  of  that  mind,  visible  in  its  action,  and  presag- 
ing those  events.  The  one  is  like  the  marks  left  by  the  thunder- 
storm— the  blasted  tree — the  purified  atmosphere ;  the  other  like 
the  flash  from  the  bosom  of  the  cloud,  or  the  voice  of  the  tem- 
pest, announcing  its  approach.  The  one  is  the  track  of  the  ocean 
on  its  shore ;  the  other  the  continual  movement  and  murmur  of 
the  sea. 

Besides,  there  are  epochs  which  have  no  contemporaneous 
history ;  but  have  left  in  their  popular  poetry  pretty  ample  ma- 
terials for  estimating  the  character  of  the  times.  The  events, 
indeed,  therein  recorded  may  be  exaggerated  facts,  or  vague 
traditions,  or  inventions  entirely  apocryphal ;  yet  they  faithfully 
represent  the  spirit  of  the  ages  which  produced  them ;  they  con- 
tain direct  allusions  and  incidental  circumstances,  too  insig- 
nificant in  themselves  to  have  been  fictitious,  and  yet  on  that  very 
account  the  most  important  parts  of  the  poem  in  an  historical 
point  of  view.  Such,  for  example,  are  the  "  Nibelungen  Lied  '* 
in  Germany ;  the  "  Poema  del  Cid  "  in  Spain ;  and  the  "  Songs 
of  the  Troubadours  "  in  France.  Hence  poetry  comes  in  for  a 
large  share  in  that  high  eulogy  which,  in  the  true  spirit  of  the 
scholar,  a  celebrated  German  critic  has  bestowed  upon  letters: 
**  If  we  consider  literature  in  its  widest  sense,  as  the  voice  which 


222  LONGFELLOW 

gives  expression  to  human  intellect — as  the  aggregate  mass  of 
symbols,  in  which  the  spirit  of  an  age  or  the  character  of  a  na- 
tion is  shadowed  forth,  then  indeed  a  great  and  various  literature 
is,  without  doubt,  the  most  valuable  possession  of  which  any  na- 
tion can  boast."  * 

From  all  these  considerations,  we  are  forced  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  poetry  is  a  subject  of  far  greater  importance  in  itself, 
and  in  its  bearing  upon  the  condition  of  society,  than  the  ma- 
jority of  mankind  would  be  willing  to  allow.  We  heartily  regret 
that  this  opinion  is  not  a  more  prevailing  one  in  our  land.  We 
give  too  little  encouragement  to  works  of  imagination  and  taste. 
The  vocation  of  the  poet  does  not  stand  high  enough  in  our  es- 
teem ;  we  are  too  cold  in  admiration,  too  timid  in  praise.  The 
poetic  lute  and  the  high-sounding  lyre  are  much  too  often  and 
too  generally  looked  upon  as  the  baubles  of  effeminate  minds, 
or  bells  and  rattles  to  please  the  ears  of  children.  The  prospect, 
however,  brightens.  But  a  short  time  ago  not  a  poet  "  moved 
the  wing,  or  opened  the  mouth,  or  peeped  " ;  and  now  we  have 
a  host  of  them — three  or  four  good  ones,  and  three  or  four  hun- 
dred poor  ones.  This,  however,  we  will  not  stop  to  cavil  about 
at  present.  To  those  of  them  who  may  honor  us  by  reading  our 
article  we  would  whisper  this  request — that  they  should  be  more 
original,  and  withal  more  national.  It  seems  every  way  im- 
portant that  now,  while  we  are  forming  our  literature,  we  should 
make  it  as  original,  characteristic,  and  national  as  possible.  To 
effect  this,  it  is  not  necessary  that  the  war-whoop  should  ring 
in  every  line,  and  every  page  be  rife  with  scalps,  tomahawks, 
and  wampum.  Shade  of  Tecumseh  forbid !  The  whole  secret 
lies  in  Sidney's  maxim — "  Look  in  thy  heart  and  write."    For — 

"  Cantars  non  pot  gaire  valer. 
Si  d'inz  del  cor  no  mov  lo  chang."  ^ 

Of  this  anon.  We  will  first  make  a  few  remarks  upon  the  word 
national,  as  applied  to  the  literature  of  a  country;  for  when 
we  speak  of  a  national  poetry  we  do  not  employ  the  term  in  that 
vague  and  indefinite  way  in  which  many  writers  use  it. 

A  national  literature,  then,  in  the  widest  signification  of  the 
words,  embraces  every  mental  effort  made  by  the  inhabitants  of 

*  Schlegel,  "  Lectures  on  the  History  ^  «« The  poet's  song  is  little  worth, 

of  Literature,"  vol.  i.,  lee.  vii.  If  it  moveth  not  from  within  the 

heart." 


DEFENCE   OF  POETRY  223 

a  country,  through  the  medium  of  the  press.  Every  book  writ- 
ten by  a  citizen  of  a  country  belongs  to  its  national  literature. 
But  the  term  has  also  a  more  peculiar  and  appropriate  definition ; 
for,  when  we  say  that  the  literature  of  a  country  is  national,  we 
mean  that  it  bears  upon  it  the  stamp  of  national  character.  We 
refer  to  those  distinguishing  features  which  literature  receives 
from  the  spirit  of  a  nation — from  its  scenery  and  climate,  its  his- 
toric recollections,  its  government,  its  various  institutions — from 
all  those  national  peculiarities  which  are  the  result  of  no  posi- 
tive institutions;  and,  in  a  word,  from  the  thousand  external 
circumstances,  which  either  directly  or  indirectly  exert  an  in- 
fluence upon  the  literature  of  a  nation,  and  give  it  a  marked 
and  individual  character,  distinct  from  that  of  the  literature  of 
other  nations. 

In  order  to  be  more  definite  and  more  easily  understood  in 
these  remarks,  we  will  here  offer  a  few  illustrations  of  the  in- 
fluence of  external  causes  upon  the  character  of  the  mind,  the 
peculiar  habits  of  thought  and  feeling,  and  consequently  the 
general  complexion  of  literary  performances.  From  the  causes 
enumerated  above,  we  select  natural  scenery  and  climate  as  being 
among  the  most  obvious  in  their  influence  upon  the  prevailing 
tenor  of  poetic  composition.  Everyone  who  is  acquainted  with 
the  works  of  the  English  poets  must  have  noted  that  a  moral 
feeling  and  a  certain  rural  quiet  and  repose  are  among  their  most 
prominent  characteristics.  The  features  of  their  native  land- 
scape are  transferred  to  the  printed  page,  and  as  we  read  we  hear 
the  warble  of  the  skylark — the  "  hollow  murmuring  wind,  or 
silver  rain."  The  shadow  of  the  woodland  scene  lends  a  pensive 
shadow  to  the  ideal  world  of  poetry : 

"Why  lure  me  from  these  pale  retreats? 

Why  rob  me  of  these  pensive  sweets? 

Can  Music's  voice,  can  Beauty's  eye, 

Can  Painting's  glowing  hand  supply, 

A  charm  so  suited  to  my  mind, 

As  blows  this  hollow  gust  of  wind, 

As  drops  this  little  weeping  rill, 

Soft  tinkling  down  the  moss-grown  hill, 
While  through  the  west,  where  sinks  the  crimson  day, 
Meek  Twilight  slowly  sails,  and  waves  her  banners  gray?  "  ^ 

•  Mason's  "  Ode  to  a  Friend." 


224 


LONGFELLOW 


In  the  same  richly  poetic  vein  are  the  following  lines  from 
Collins's  ''  Ode  to  Evening  " : 

*'  Or  if  chill  blustering  winds,  or  driving  rain, 
Prevent  my  willing  feet,  be  mine  the  hut, 
That  from  the  mountain's  side, 
Views  wilds  and  swelling  floods, 

"  And  hamlets  brown,  and  dim-discovered  spires, 
And  hears  their  simple  bell,  and  marks  o'er  all 
The  dewy  fingers  draw 
The  gradual  dusky  veil." 

In  connection  with  the  concluding  lines  of  these  two  extracts, 
and  as  an  illustration  of  the  influence  of  climate  on  the  character 
of  poetry,  it  is  worthy  of  remark  that  the  English  poets  excel 
those  of  the  south  of  Europe  in  their  descriptions  of  morning 
and  evening.  They  dwell  with  long  delight  and  frequent  repe- 
tition upon  the  brightening  glory  of  the  hour,  when  "  the  north- 
ern wagoner  has  set  his  sevenfold  teme  behind  the  stedfast 
starre  " ;  and  upon  the  milder  beauty  of  departing  day,  when 
"  the  bright-haired  sun  sits  in  yon  western  tent."  What,  for 
example,  can  be  more  descriptive  of  the  vernal  freshness  of  a 
morning  in  May  than  the  often  quoted  song  in  "  Cymbeline  "  ? — 

"  Hark !   hark !   the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 
And  Phoebus  'gins  arise 
His  steeds  to  water  at  those  springs 

On  chaliced  flowers  that  lies; 
And  winking  Mary-buds  begin 
To  ope  their  golden  eyes; 
With  everything  that  pretty  bin; 
My  lady  sweet,  arise; 
Arise,  arise !  " 

How  full  of  poetic  feeling  and  imagery  is  the  following  de- 
scription of  the  dawn  of  day,  taken  from  Fletcher's  "  Faith- 
ful Shepherdess  " ! — 

"  See,  the  day  begins  to  break,  » 

And  the  light  shoots  like  a  streak 
Of  subtle  fire,  the  wind  blows  cold, 
While  the  morning  doth  unfold ; 
Now  the  birds  begin  to  rouse, 
And  the  squirrel  from  the  boughs 


DEFENCE   OF   POETRY  ^25 

Leaps,  to  get  him  nuts  and  fruit; 
The  early  lark  that  erst  was  mute, 
Carols  to  the  rising  day 
Many  a  note  and  many  a  lay." 

Still  more  remarkable  than  either  of  these  extracts,  as  a 
graphic  description  of  morning,  is  the  following  from  Beattie's 
''  Minstrel " : 

**  But  who  the  melodies  of  morn  can  tell  ? 

The  wild  brook  babbling  down  the  mountain's  side ; 

The  lowing  herd;   the  sheepfold's  simple  bell; 

The  pipe  of  early  shepherd  dim  descried 

In  the  lonely  valley ;   echoing  far  and  wide, 

The  clamorous  horn  along  the  cliffs  above; 

The  hollow  murmur  of  the  ocean-tide; 

The  hum  of  bees,  and  linnet's  lay  of  love. 
And  the  full  choir  that  wakes  the  universal  grove. 

**  The  cottage  curs  at  early  pilgrim  bark ; 

Crowned  with  her  pail,  the  tripping  milkmaid  sings ; 

The  whistling  ploughman  stalks  afield ;   and  hark ! 

Down  the  rough  slope  thv    ponderous  wagon  rings; 

Through  rustling  corn  the  hare  astonished  springs; 

Slow  tolls  the  village  clock  the  drowsy  hour; 

The  partridge  bursts  away  on  whirring  wings; 

Deep  mourns  the  turtle  in  sequestered  bower; 
And  shrill  lark  carols  clear  from  her  aerial  tower.'* 

Extracts  of  this  kind  we  might  multiply  almost  without  num- 
ber. The  same  may  be  said  of  similar  ones,  descriptive  of  the 
gradual  approach  of  evening  and  the  close  of  day.  But  we 
have  already  quoted  enough  for  our  present  purpose.  Now,  to 
what  peculiarities  of  natural  scenery  and  climate  may  we  trace 
these  manifold  and  beautiful  descriptions,  which  in  their  truth, 
delicacy,  and  poetic  coloring  surpass  all  the  pictures  of  the  kind 
in  Tasso,  Guarini,  Boscan,  Garcilaso,  and,  in  a  word,  all  the  most 
celebrated  poets  of  the  south  of  Europe  ?  Doubtless,  to  the  rural 
beauty  which  pervades  the  English  landscape,  and  to  the  long 
morning  and  evening  twilight  of  a  northern  climate. 

Still,  with  all  this  taste  for  the  charms  of  rural  description 
and  sylvan  song,  pastoral  poetry  has  never  been  much  cultivated 
nor  much  admired  in  England.  The  "  Arcadia  "  of  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  it  is  true,  enjoyed  a  temporary  celebrity,  but  this  was, 
doubtless,  owing  in  a  great  measure  to  the  rank  of  its  author; 
15 


226  LONGFELLOW 

and  though  the  pastorals  of  Pope  are  still  read  and  praised,  their 
reputation  belongs  in  part  to  their  author's  youth  at  the  time 
of  their  composition.  Nor  is  this  remarkable.  For  though  the 
love  of  rural  ease  is  characteristic  of  the  English,  yet  the  rigors 
of  their  climate  render  their  habits  of  pastoral  Hfe  anything  but 
delightful.  In  the  mind  of  an  Englishman,  the  snowy  fleece  is 
more  intimately  associated  with  the  weaver's  shuttle  than  with 
the  shepherd's  crook.  Horace  Walpole  has  a  humorous  passage 
in  one  of  his  letters  on  the  affectation  of  pastoral  habits  in  Eng- 
land. "  In  short,"  says  he,  **  every  summer  one  lives  in  a  state 
of  mutiny  and  murmur,  and  I  have  found  the  reason ;  it  is  be- 
cause we  will  affect  to  have  a  summer,  and  we  have  no  title  to 
any  such  thing.  Our  poets  learned  their  trade  of  the  Romans, 
and  so  adopted  the  terms  of  their  masters.  They  talk  of  shady 
groves,  purling  streams,  and  cooling  breezes,  and  we  get  sore 
throats  and  agues  by  attempting  to  realize  these  visions.  Master 
Damon  writes  a  song,  and  invites  Miss  Chloe  to  enjoy  the  cool 
of  the  evening,  and  the  deuce  a  bit  have  we  of  any  such  thing  as 
a  cool  evening.  Zephyr  is  a  northeast  wind,  that  makes  Damon 
button  up  to  the  chin,  and  pinches  Chloe's  nose  till  it  is  red  and 
blue ;  and  they  cry,  *  This  is  a  bad  summer  ' ;  as  if  we  ever  had 
any  other.  The  best  sun  we  have  is  made  of  Newcastle  coal,  and 
I  am  determined  never  to  reckon  upon  any  other."  On  the  con- 
trary, the  poetry  of  the  Italians,  the  Spaniards,  and  the  Por- 
tuguese is  redolent  of  the  charms  of  pastoral  indolence  and  en- 
joyment ;  for  they  inhabit  countries  in  which  pastoral  life  is  a 
reality  and  not  a  fiction,  where  the  winter's  sun  will  almost  make 
you  seek  the  shade,  and  the  summer  nights  are  mild  and  beauti- 
ful in  the  open  air.  The  babbling  brook  and  cooling  breeze  are 
luxuries  in  a  southern  clime,  where  you 

"  See  the  sun  set,  sure  he'll  rise  to-morrow, 
Not  through  a  misty  morning  twinkling,  weak  as 

A  drunken  man's  dead  eye,  in  maudlin  sorrow, 
But  with  all  heaven  t'  himself." 

A  love  of  indolence  and  a  warm  imagination  are  characteristic 
of  the  inhabitants  of  the  South.  These  are  natural  effects  of  a 
soft,  voluptuous  climate.  It  is  there  a  luxury  to  let  the  body  lie 
at  ease,  stretched  by  a  fountain  in  the  lazy  stillness  of  a  summer 
noon,  and  suffer  the  dreamy  fancy  to  lose  itself  in  idle  reverie 


t>EFENCE   OF   POETRY  227 

and  give  a  form  to  the  wind  and  a  spirit  to  the  shadow  and  the 
leaf.  Hence  the  prevalence  of  personification  and  the  exaggera- 
tions of  figurative  language,  so  characteristic  of  the  poetry  of 
southern  nations.  As  an  illustration,  take  the  following  beauti- 
ful sonnet  from  the  Spanish.  It  is  addressed  to  a  mountain 
brook : 

"  Laugh  of  the  mountain !   lyre  of  bird  and  tree ! 
Mirror  of  morn,  and  garniture  of  fields ! 
The  soul  of  April,  that  so  gently  yields 
The  rose  and  jasmine  bloom,  leaps  wild  in  thee! 

"  Although,  where'er  thy  devious  current  strays, 

The  lap  of  earth  with  gold  and  silver  teems, 
To  me  thy  clear  proceeding  brighter  seems 
Than  golden  sands,  that  charm  each  shepherd's  gaze. 

"  How  without  guile  thy  bosom,  all  transparent 

As  the  pure  crystal,  lets  the  curious  eye 
Thy  secrets  scan,  thy  smooth  round  pebbles  count! 
How,  without  malice  murmuring,  glides  thy  current! 

O  sweet  simplicity  of  days  gone  by  I 
Thou  shunnest  the  haunts  of  man,  to  dwell  in  limpid  fount !  "  ^ 

We  will  pursue  these  considerations  no  longer,  for  fear  of 
digressing  too  far.  What  we  have  already  said  will  illustrate, 
perhaps  superficially,  but  sufficiently  for  our  present  purpose, 
the  influence  of  natural  scenery  and  climate  upon  the  character 
of  poetical  composition.  It  will  at  least  show  that  in  speaking 
of  this  influence  we  did  not  speak  at  random  and  without  a  dis- 
tinct meaning.  Similar  and  much  more  copious  illustrations 
of  the  influence  of  various  other  external  circumstances  on 
national  literature  might  here  be  given.  But  it  is  not  our  in- 
tention to  go  into  details.  They  will  naturally  suggest  them- 
selves to  the  mind  of  every  reflecting  reader. 

We  repeat,  then,  that  we  wish  our  native  poets  would  give 
a  more  national  character  to  their  writings.    In  order  to  effect 

»  "  Risa  del  monte,  de  las  aves  lira!  "  Cuan    sin    engaiio    tus    entranas 

pompa   del   prado,   espejo  de  la  au-  puras 

rora!  dejan  por  transparente  vidriera 

alma  de  Abril,  espiritu  de  Flora  las  guijuelas  al  numero  patentes! 
por  quien  la  rosa  y  el  jazmin  espira! 

"  Cuan   sin   malicia   cSndida   mur- 

*' Aunque    tu    curso     en    cuantos  muras! 

pasos  gira  O  sencillez  de  aquella  edad  primera, 

tanta  jurisdiccion  argenta  y  dora,  huyes    del    hombre   y   vives    en   las 

tu  claro  proceder  mas  me  enamora  fuentes." 
que  lo  que  en  ti  todo  pastor  admira. 


22$  LONGFELLOW 

this  they  have  only  to  write  more  naturally,  to  write  from  their 
own  feelings  and  impressions,  from  the  influence  of  what  they 
see  around  them,  and  not  from  any  preconceived  notions  of  what 
poetry  ought  to  be,  caught  by  reading  many  books  and  imitat- 
ing many  models.  This  is  peculiarly  true  in  descriptions  of 
natural  scenery.  In  these  let  us  have  no  more  skylarks  and 
nightingales.  For  us  they  only  warble  in  books.  A  painter 
might  as  well  introduce  an  elephant  or  a  rhinoceros  into  a  New 
England  landscape.  We  would  not  restrict  our  poets  in  the 
choice  of  their  subjects  or  the  scenes  of  their  story ;  but,  when 
they  sing  under  an  American  sky  and  describe  a  native  land- 
scape, let  the  description  be  graphic,  as  if  it  had  been  seen  and 
not  imagined.  We  wish,  too,  to  see  the  figures  and  imagery  of 
poetry  a  little  more  characteristic,  as  if  drawn  from  nature  and 
not  from  books.  Of  this  we  have  constantly  recurring  examples 
in  the  language  of  our  North  American  Indians.  Our  readers 
will  all  recollect  the  last  words  of  Pushmataha,  the  Choctaw 
chief,  who  died  at  Washington  in  the  year  1824:  "  I  shall  die, 
but  you  will  return  to  your  brethren.  As  you  go  along  the 
paths  you  will  see  the  flowers  and  hear  the  birds;  but  Push- 
mataha will  see  them  and  hear  them  no  more.  When  you  come 
to  your  home  they  will  ask  you,  *  Where  is  Pushmataha  ? '  and 
you  will  say  to  them,  '  He  is  no  more.'  They  will  hear  the  tid- 
ings like  the  sound  of  the  fall  of  a  mighty  oak  in  the  stillness  of 
the  wood."  More  attention  on  the  part  of  our  writers  to  these 
particulars  would  give  a  new  and  delightful  expression  to  the 
face  of  our  poetry.  But  the  difficulty  is,  that  instead  of  coming 
forward  as  bold,  original  thinkers,  they  have  imbibed  the  degen- 
erate spirit  of  modern  English  poetry.  They  have  hitherto  been 
imitators  either  of  decidedly  bad,  or  of  at  best  very  indifferent 
models.  It  has  been  the  fashion  to  write  strong  lines — to  aim 
at  point  and  antithesis.  This  has  made  writers  turgid  and  ex- 
travagant. Instead  of  ideas  they  give  us  merely  the  signs  of 
ideas.  They  erect  a  great  bridge  of  words,  pompous  and  im- 
posing, where  there  is  hardly  a  drop  of  thought  to  trickle  be- 
neath. Is  not  he  who  thus  apostrophizes  the  clouds,  "  Ye  posters 
of  the  wakeless  air !  "  quite  as  extravagant  as  the  Spanish  poet 
who  calls  a  star  a  "  burning  doubloon  of  the  celestial  bank  "  ? 
("  Doblon  ardiente  del  celeste  banco! '') 
This  spirit  of  imitation  has  spread  far  and  wide.    But  a  few 


DEFENCE   OF   POETRY  229 

years  ago  what  an  aping  of  Lord  Byron  exhibited  itself  through- 
out the  country !  It  was  not  an  imitation  of  the  brighter  char- 
acteristics of  his  intellect,  but  a  mimicry  of  his  sullen  misan- 
thropy and  irreligious  gloom.  We  do  not  wish  to  make  a  bug- 
bear of  Lord  Byron's  name,  nor  figuratively  to  disturb  his  bones ; 
still  we  cannot  but  express  our  belief  that  no  writer  has  done 
half  so  much  to  corrupt  the  literary  taste  as  well  as  the  moral 
principle  of  our  country  as  the  author  of  "  Childe  Harold."  ® 
Minds  that  could  not  understand  his  beauties  could  imitate  his 
great  and  glaring  defects.  Souls  that  could  not  fathom  his 
depths  could  grasp  the  straw  and  bubbles  that  floated  upon  the 
agitated  surface,  until  at  length  every  city,  town,  and  village  had 
its  little  Byron,  its  self-tormenting  scoffer  at  morality,  its  gloomy 
misanthropist  in  song.  Happily,  this  noxious  influence  has 
been  in  some  measure  checked  and  counteracted  by  the  writings 
of  Wordsworth,  whose  pure  and  gentle  philosophy  has  been 
gradually  gaining  the  ascendancy  over  the  bold  and  visionary 
speculations  of  an  unhealthy  imagination.  The  sobriety,  and 
if  we  may  use  the  expression,  the  republican  simplicity  of  his 
poetry,  are  in  unison  with  our  moral  and  political  doctrines.  But 
even  Wordsworth,  with  all  his  simplicity  of  diction  and  exquisite 
moral  feeling,  is  a  very  unsafe  model  for  imitation;  and  it  is 
worth  while  to  observe  how  invariably  those  who  have  imitated 
him  have  fallen  into  tedious  mannerism.  As  the  human  mind 
is  so  constituted  that  all  men  receive  to  a  greater  or  less  degree 
a  complexion  from  those  with  whom  they  are  conversant,  the 
writer  who  means  to  school  himself  to  poetic  composition — we 
mean  so  far  as  regards  style  and  diction — should  be  very  careful 
what  authors  he  studies.  He  should  leave  the  present  age 
and  go  back  to  the  olden  time.  He  should  make,  not  the  writ- 
ings of  an  individual,  but  the  whole  body  of  English  classical 

8  We  here  subjoin  Lord  Byron's  own  gone  over  some  of  our  classics,  par- 
opinion  of  the  poetical  taste  of  the  pres-  ticularly  Pope,  whom  I  tried  in  this 
ent  age.  It  is  from  a  letter  in  the  sec-  way:  I  took  Moore's  poems  and  my  own 
ond  volume  of  Moore's  "  Life  of  and  some  others,  and  went  over  them 
Byron":  "With  regard  to  poetry  in  side  by  side  with  Pope's,  and  I  was 
general,  I  am  convinced,  the  more  I  really  astonished  (I  ought  not  to  have 
think  of  it,  that  he  and  all  of  us—  been  so)  and  mortified  at  the  ineffable 
Scott,  Southey,  Wordsworth,  Moore,  distance  in  point  of  sense,  learning,  ef- 
Campbell,  I — are  all  in  the  wrong,  one  feet,  and  even  imagination,  passion,  and 
as  much  as  another;  that  we  are  upon  invention  between  the  Queen  Anne's 
a  wrong  revolutionary  poetical  system,  man  and  us  of  the  Lower  Empire.  De- 
or  systems,  and  from  which  none  but  pend  upon  it,  it  is  all  Horace  then,  and 
Rogers  and  Crabbe  are  free;  and  that  Claudian  now,  among  us;  and  if  I  had 
the  present  and  next  generations  will  to  begin  again,  I  would  mould  myself 
finally  be  of  this  opinion.  I  am  the  accordingly." 
more  confirmed  in  this  by  having  lately 


230  LONGFELLOW 

literature  his  study.  There  is  a  strength  of  expression,  a  clear- 
ness, and  force  and  raciness  of  thought  in  the  elder  English  poets 
which  we  may  look  for  in  vain  among  those  who  flourish  in 
these  days  of  verbiage.  Truly,  the  degeneracy  of  modern  poetry 
is  no  school-boy  declamation !  The  stream,  whose  fabled  foun- 
tain gushes  from  the  Grecian  mount,  flowed  brightly  through 
those  ages,  when  the  souls  of  men  stood  forth  in  the  rugged 
freedom  of  nature  and  gave  a  wild  and  romantic  character  to  the 
ideal  landscape.  But  in  these  practical  days,  whose  spirit  has  so 
unsparingly  levelled  to  the  even  surface  of  utility  the  bold  ir- 
regularities of  human  genius,  and  lopped  off  the  luxuriance  of 
poetic  feeling  which  once  lent  its  grateful  shade  to  the  haunts  of 
song,  that  stream  has  spread  itself  into  stagnant  pools  which 
exhale  an  unhealthy  atmosphere,  while  the  party-colored  bubbles 
that  glitter  on  its  surface  show  the  corruption  from  which  they 
spring. 

Another  circumstance  which  tends  to  give  an  effeminate  and 
unmanly  character  to  our  literature  is  the  precocity  of  our 
writers.  Premature  exhibitions  of  talent  are  an  unstable  foun- 
dation to  build  a  national  literature  upon.  Roger  Ascham,  the 
school-master  of  princes,  and  for  the  sake  of  antithesis,  we  sup- 
pose, called  the  Prince  of  School-masters,  has  well  said  of  preco- 
cious minds :  "  They  be  like  trees  that  showe  forth  faire  blos- 
soms and  broad  leaves  in  spring-time,  but  bring  out  small  and 
not  long-lasting  fruit  in  harvest-time;  and  that  only  such  as 
fall  and  rott  before  they  be  ripe,  and  so  never  or  seldome  come 
to  any  good  at  all."  It  is  natural  that  the  young  should  be  en- 
ticed by  the  wreaths  of  literary  fame,  whose  hues  are  so  passing 
beautiful  even  to  the  more  sober-sighted,  and  whose  flowers 
breathe  around  them  such  exquisite  perfumes.  Many  are  de- 
ceived into  a  misconception  of  their  talents  by  the  indiscreet  and 
indiscriminate  praise  of  friends.  They  think  themselves  des- 
tined to  redeem  the  glory  of  their  age  and  country ;  to  shine  as 
"  bright  particular  stars  " ;  but  in  reality  their  genius 

"  Is  like  the  glow-worm's  light  the  apes  so  wondered  at, 
Which,  when  they  gathered  sticks  and  laid  upon't, 
And  blew — and  blew — turned  tail  and  went  out  presently." 

We  have  set  forth  the  portrait  of  modern  poetry  in  rather 
gloomy  colors ;  for  we  really  think  that  the  greater  part  of  what 


DEFENCE   OE   POETRY 


231 


is  published  in  this  book- writing  age  ought  in  justice  to  suffer  ] 
the  fate  of  the  children  of  Thetis,  whose  immortality  was  tried  ; 
by  fire.  We  hope,  however,  that  ere  long  some  one  of  our  ' 
most  gifted  bards  will  throw  his  fetters  off,  and,  relying  in  him- 
self alone,  fathom  the  recesses  of  his  own  mind,  and  bring  up  ^ 
rich  pearls  from  the  secret  depths  of  thought.  I 
We  will  conclude  these  suggestions  to  our  native  poets  by  \ 
quoting  Ben  Jonson's  "  Ode  to  Himself,"  which  we  address  to  j 
each  of  them  individually :  j 

"  When  do' St  thou  careless  lie  , 

Buried  in  ease  and  sloth?  ] 

Knowledge,  that  sleeps,  doth  die;  j 

And  this  securitie —  1 

It  is  the  common  moth  ; 

That  eats  on  wits,  and  arts,  and  quite  destroys  them  both.  ' 

"  Are  all  th'  Aonian  springs  I 

Dri'd  up?    Thespia  waste?  ■ 
Doth  Clarius'  harp  want  strings, 

That  not  a  nymph  now  sings !  \ 

Or  droop  they  as  disgrac't,  4 

To  see  their  seats  and  bowers  by  chatt'ring  pies  defac't?  i 

i 

**  If  hence  thy  silence  be,  j 

As  'tis  too  just  a  cause,  j 

Let  this  thought  quicken  thee,  5 

Minds  that  are  great  and  free  \ 

Should  not  on  fortune  pause ;  1 

'Tis  crowne  enough  to  virtue  still,  her  owne  applause.  ; 

"  What  though  the  greedy  frie  ! 

Be  taken  with  false  baytes  ^ 

Of  worded  balladrie,  J 
And  thinke  it  poesie? 

They  die  with  their  conceits, 

And  only  piteous  scorne  upon  their  folly  waites."  '• 


JOHN    BUNYAN 


BY 


JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER 


JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER 
1807 — 1892 

Unlike  Emerson,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and  Holmes,  who  fell  heirs  to 
the  culture  and  learning  of  generations  of  scholarship,  John  Greenleaf 
Whittier  began  life  with  few  intellectual  advantages.  Born  on  a  farm 
near  Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  in  1807,  his  boyhood  was  passed  in  toil 
unrelieved  by  any  opportunities  for  mental  development.  A  copy  of 
Burns's  poems  which  chanced  to  fall  into  his  hands  gave  the  Quaker 
farm-boy  the  first  inspiration  to  write  poetry  himself.  For  a  few  weeks 
each  winter  he  was  permitted  to  attend  the  district  school,  until  William 
Lloyd  Garrison,  who  had  published  some  of  his  boyish  verses,  per- 
suaded his  parents  to  send  him  to  Haverhill  Academy.  Two  terms  at 
this  institution  completed  his  education  at  school,  nor  was  he  privileged 
in  after  life  to  visit  Europe,  an  experience  which  to  many  of  his  con- 
temporaries had  been  the  rich  equivalent  of  a  university  course. 

At  the  age  of  twenty  Whittier  left  the  farm  to  take  up  journalism  as 
his  profession.  For  twelve  years,  from  1828  to  1840,  he  was  an  editor 
of  daily  journals  in  various  towns,  at  Haverhill,  at  Hartford,  then  at 
Boston,  and  at  Philadelphia.  During  this  period  he  became  more  and 
more  identified  with  the  abolition  movement,  and  published  numerous 
stirring  poems  on  this  subject.  His  anti-slavery  verses,  however,  have 
proved  to  be  the  least  enduring  of  his  writings.  In  1831  he  published 
his  first  book,  a  miscellany  of  prose  and  verse  called  "  Legends  of  New 
England."  In  1840,  the  farm  in  Haverhill  having  been  sold,  Whittier 
purchased  a  house  in  Amesbury,  where  he  lived  for  the  remainder  of 
his  life.  Much  of  his  time  was  spent  in  anti-slavery  agitation,  speak- 
ing fearlessly,  writing  passionately,  and  attending  many  conventions. 
He  also  edited  the  "  National  Era,"  and  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the 
"  Atlantic  Monthly."  Aside  from  his  anti-slavery  poems  Whittier  pub- 
lished "  Lays  of  my  Home  "  in  1843,  "  Songs  of  Labor  "  in  1850,  and 
"  Home  Ballads "  in  i860.  These  books  contain  some  of  the  finest 
lyrics  and  most  stirring  ballads  in  American  literature,  including  as  they 
do  "  Angels  of  Buena  Vista,"  "  Maud  Muller,"  "  Ichabod,"  "  Barefoot 
Boy,"  and  "  Skipper  Ireson's  Ride."  In  1863  "  In  War  Time "  ap- 
peared, containing  among  other  poems  "  Barbara  Freitchie."  Three 
years  later  Whittier  published  "  Snow-Bound,"  and  achieved  his  first 
great  popular  success.  The  sales  of  this  book  placed  him  for  the  first 
time,  at  the  age  of  fifty-nine,  in  comfortable  circumstances.  "  The  Tent 
on  the  Beach  "  and  "  Among  the  Hills,"  published  in  quick  succession, 
were  received  with  almost  equal  favor,  but  "  Snow-Bound  "  was,  and 
still  remains,  Whittier's  greatest  work,  an  idyll  of  New  England  life 
comparable,  in  regard  to  literary  worth  and  popularity,  to  Goldsmith's 
"  Deserted  Village  "  and  Burns's  "  Cottar's  Saturday  Night."  During 
his  later  years  Whittier  published  several  volumes  of  poetry  which, 
while  they  increased  his  popularity,  added  nothing'to  his  fame.  He 
died  in  1892,  perhaps  the  most  popular  of  American  poets  after  Long- 
fellow. 

It  is  as  a  poet  that  Whittier  will  be  longest  and  best  remembered,  but 
he  is  also  the  author  of  much  charming  prose.  Besides  a  number  of 
tales  and  sketches  from  his  pen,  concerned  chiefly  with  New  England 
scenes  and  legends,  we  have  various  literary  criticisms  and  reviews, 
such  as  his  article  on  "  John  Bunyan,"  which  show  that  the  poet  pos- 
sessed skill  of  no  mean  order  as  an  essayist.  His  prose  style,  as  we 
are  led  to  expect  from  his  personal  character,  is  simple,  unaffected,  and 
direct. 

234 


JOHN  BUNYAN 

"  Wouldst  see 
A  man  i'  the  clouds,  and  hear  him  speak  to  thee  ?  " 

WHO  has  not  read  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  ?  Who  has  not, 
in  childhood,  followed  the  wandering  Christian  on 
his  way  to  the  Celestial  City?  Who  has  not  laid  at 
night  his  young  head  on  the  pillow,  to  paint  on  the  walls  of  dark- 
ness pictures  of  the  Wicket  Gate  and  the  Archers,  the  Hill  of 
Difficulty,  the  Lions  and  Giants,  Doubting  Castle  and  Vanity 
Fair,  the  sunny  Delectable  Mountains  and  the  Shepherds,  the 
Black  River  and  the  wonderful  glory  beyond  it;  and  at  last 
fallen  asleep,  to  dream  over  the  strange  story,  to  hear  the  sweet 
welcomings  of  the  sisters  at  the  House  Beautiful,  and  the  song 
of  birds  from  the  window  of  that  "  upper  chamber  which  opened 
towards  the  sunrising  ?  "  And  who,  looking  back  to  the  green 
spots  in  his  childish  experiences,  does  not  bless  the  good  tinker 
of  Elstow  ? 

And  who,  that  has  reperused  the  story  of  the  pilgrim  at  a 
maturer  age,  and  felt  the  plummet  of  its  truth  sounding  in  the 
deep  places  of  the  soul,  has  not  reason  to  bless  the  author  for 
some  timely  warning  or  grateful  encouragement  ?  Where  is  the 
scholar,  the  poet,  the  man  of  taste  and  feeling,  who  does  not, 
with  Cowper, 

*'  Even  in  transitory  life's  late  day, 
Revere  the  man  whose  pilgrim  marks  the  road. 
And  guides  the  progress  of  the  soul  to  God  "  ? 

We  have  just  been  reading,  with  no  slight  degree  of  interest, 
that  sample  but  wonderful  piece  of  autobiography,  entitled 
"  Grace  Abounding  to  the  Chief  of  Sinners,"  from  the  pen  of  the 
author  of  **  Pilgrim's  Progress."  It  is  the  record  of  a  journey 
more  terrible  than  that  of  the  ideal  pilgrim ;  "  truth  stranger 
than  fiction ; "  the  painful  upward  struggling  of  a  spirit  from 
the  blackness  of  despair  and  blasphemy,  into  the  high,  pure  air 

235 


236  WHITTIER 

of  hope  and  faith.  More  earnest  words  were  never  written.  It 
is  the  entire  unveiling  of  a  human  heart ;  the  tearing  off  of  the 
fig-leaf  covering  of  its  sin.  The  voice  which  speaks  to  us  from 
these  old  pages  seems  not  so  much  that  of  a  denizen  of  the  world 
in  which  we  live,  as  of  a  soul  at  the  last  solemn  confessional. 
Shorn  of  all  ornament,  simple  and  direct  as  the  contrition  and 
prayer  of  childhood,  when  for  the  first  time  the  spectre  of  sin 
stands  by  its  bedside,  the  style  is  that  of  a  man  dead  to  self- 
gratification,  careless  of  the  world's  opinion,  and  only  desirous 
to  convey  to  others,  in  all  truthfulness  and  sincerity,  the  lesson  of 
his  inward  trials,  temptations,  sins,  weaknesses,  and  dangers; 
and  to  give  glory  to  Him  who  had  mercifully  led  him  through  all, 
and  enabled  him,  like  his  own  pilgrim,  to  leave  behind  the  Valley 
of  the  Shadow  of  Death,  the  snares  of  the  Enchanted  Ground, 
and  the  terrors  of  Doubting  Castle,  and  to  reach  the  land  of 
Beulah,  where  the  air  was  sweet  and  pleasant,  and  the  birds 
sang  and  the  flowers  sprang  up  around  him,  and  the  Shining 
Ones  walked  in  the  brightness  of  the  not  distant  Heaven.  In 
the  introductory  pages  he  says :  "  I  could  have  dipped  into  a 
style  higher  than  this  in  which  I  have  discoursed,  and  could  have 
adorned  all  things  more  than  here  I  have  seemed  to  do ;  but  I 
dared  not.  God  did  not  play  in  tempting  me;  neither  did  I 
play  when  I  sunk,  as  it  were,  into  a  bottomless  pit,  when  the 
pangs  of  hell  took  hold  on  me ;  wherefore,  I  may  not  play  in 
relating  of  them,  but  be  plain  and  simple,  and  lay  down  the  thing 
as  it  was." 

This  book,  as  well  as  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  was  written  in 
Bedford  prison,  and  was  designed  especially  for  the  comfort 
and  edification  of  his  "  children,  whom  God  had  counted  him 
worthy  to  beget  in  faith  by  his  ministry."  In  his  introduction 
he  tells  them,  that,  although  taken  from  them,  and  tied  up, 
"  sticking,  as  it  were,  between  the  teeth  of  the  lions  of  the  wilder- 
ness," he  once  again,  as  before,  from  the  top  of  Shemer  and 
Hermon,  so  now,  from  the  lion's  den  and  the  mountain  of 
leopards,  would  look  after  them  with  fatherly  care  and  desires 
for  their  everlasting  welfare.  "  If,"  said  he,  "  you  have  sinned 
against  light;  if  you  are  tempted  to  blaspheme;  if  you  are 
drowned  in  despair ;  if  you  think  God  fights  you ;  or  if  Heaven 
is  hidden  from  your  eyes,  remember  it  was  so  with  your  father. 
But  out  of  all  the  Lord  delivered  me." 


JOHN  BUNVAN  ^37 

He  gives  no  dates ;  he  affords  scarcely  a  clew  to  his  localities ; 
of  the  man,  as  he  worked,  and  ate,  and  drank,  and  lodged,  of 
his  neighbors  and  contemporaries,  of  all  he  saw  and  heard  of 
the  world  about  him,  we  have  only  an  occasional  glimpse,  here 
and  there,  in  his  narrative.  It  is  the  story  of  his  inward  life  only 
that  he  relates.  What  had  time  and  place  to  do  with  one  who 
trembled  always  with  the  awful  consciousness  of  an  immortal 
nature,  and  about  whom  fell  alternately  the  shadows  of  hell  and 
the  splendors  of  heaven  ?  We  gather,  indeed,  from  his  record, 
that  he  was  not  an  idle  on-looker  in  the  time  of  England's  great 
struggle  for  freedom,  but  a  soldier  of  the  Parliament,  in  his 
young  years,  among  the  praying  sworders  and  psalm-singing 
pikemen,  the  Greathearts  and  Holdfasts  whom  he  has  immor- 
talized in  his  allegory ;  but  the  only  allusion  which  he  makes  to 
this  portion  of  his  experience  is  by  way  of  illustration  of  the 
goodness  of  God  in  preserving  him  on  occasions  of  peril. 

He  was  born  in  Elstow,  in  Bedfordshire,  in  1628 ;  and,  to  use 
his  own  words,  ''  his  father's  house  was  of  that  rank  which  is 
the  meanest  and  most  despised  of  all  the  families  of  the  land." 
His  father  was  a  tinker,  and  his  son  followed  the  same  calling, 
which  necessarily  brought  him  into  association  with  the  lowest 
and  most  depraved  classes  of  English  society.  The  estimation  in 
which  the  tinker  and  his  occupation  were  held,  in  the  seventeenth 
century,  may  be  learned  from  the  quaint  and  humorous  descrip- 
tion of  Sir  Thomas  Overbury.  "  The  tinker,"  saith  he,  "  is  a 
movable,  for  he  has  no  abiding  in  one  place;  he  seems  to  be 
devout,  for  his  life  is  a  continual  pilgrimage,  and  sometimes,  in 
humility,  goes  barefoot,  therein  making  necessity  a  virtue ;  he 
is  a  gallant,  for  he  carries  all  his  wealth  upon  his  back ;  or  a 
philosopher,  for  he  bears  all  his  substance  with  him.  He  is  al- 
ways furnished  with  a  song,  to  which  his  hammer,  keeping  tune, 
proves  that  he  was  the  first  founder  of  the  kettle-drum ;  where 
the  best  ale  is,  there  stands  his  music  most  upon  crotchets.  The 
companion  of  his  travel  is  some  foul,  sun-burnt  quean,  that,  since 
the  terrible  statute,  has  recanted  gipsyism,  and  is  turned  ped- 
laress.  So  marches  he  all  over  England,  with  his  bag  and  bag- 
gage ;  his  conversation  is  irreprovable,  for  he  is  always  mend- 
ing. He  observes  truly  the  statutes,  and  therefore  had  rather 
steal  than  beg.  He  is  so  strong  an  enemy  of  idleness,  that  in 
mending  one  hole  he  would  rather  make  three  than  want  work ; 


23S  WHITTIER 

and  when  he  hath  done,  he  throws  the  wallet  of  his  faults  behind 
him.  His  tongue  is  very  voluble,  which,  with  canting,  proves 
him  a  linguist.  He  is  entertained  in  every  place,  yet  enters  no 
farther  than  the  door,  to  avoid  suspicion.  To  conclude,  if  he 
escape  Tyburn  and  Banbury,  he  dies  a  beggar." 

Truly,  but  a  poor  beginning  for  a  pious  life  was  the  youth 
of  John  Bunyan.  As  might  have  been  expected,  he  was  a  wild, 
reckless,  swearing  boy,  as  his  father  doubtless  was  before  him. 
"  It  was  my  delight,"  says  he,  "  to  be  taken  captive  by  the  ^evil. 
I  had  few  equals,  both  for  cursing  and  swearing,  lying  and  blas- 
pheming." Yet,  in  his  ignorance  and  darkness,  his  powerful 
imagination  early  lent  terror  to  the  reproaches  of  conscience. 
He  was  scared,  even  in  childhood,  with  dreams  of  hell  and  ap- 
paritions of  devils.  Troubled  with  fears  of  eternal  fire,  and  the 
malignant  demons  who  fed  it  in  the  regions  of  despair,  he  says 
that  he  often  wished  either  that  there  was  no  hell,  or  that  he 
had  been  born  a  devil  himself,  that  he  might  be  a  tormentor 
rather  than  one  of  the  tormented. 

At  an  early  age  he  appears  to  have  married.  His  wife  was  as 
poor  as  himself,  for  he  tells  us  that  they  had  not  so  much  as  a 
dish  or  spoon  between  them;  but  she  brought  with  her  two 
books  on  religious  subjects,  the  reading  of  which  seems  to  have 
had  no  slight  degree  of  influence  on  his  mind.  He  went  to 
church  regularly,  adored  the  priest  and  all  things  pertaining 
to  his  office,  being,  as  he  says,  '*  overrun  with  superstition."  On 
one  occasion  a  sermon  was  preached  against  the  breach  of  the 
Sabbath  by  sports  or  labor,  which  struck  him  at  the  moment 
as  especially  designed  for  himself ;  but  by  the  time  he  had  fin- 
ished his  dinner,  he  was  prepared  to  "  shake  it  out  of  his  mind, 
and  return  to  his  sports  and  gaming." 

"  But  the  same  day,"  he  continues,  "  as  I  was  in  the  midst 
of  a  game  of  *  cat,'  and  having  struck  it  one  blow  from  the  hole, 
just  as  I  was  about  to  strike  it  a  second  time,  a  voice  did  sud- 
denly dart  from  Heaven  into  my  soul,  which  said,  '  Wilt  thou 
leave  thy  sins  and  go  to  Heaven,  or  have  thy  sins  and  go  to 
hell  ? '  At  this,  I  was  put  to  an  exceeding  maze ;  wherefore, 
leaving  my  *  cat '  upon  the  ground,  I  looked  up  to  Heaven,  and  it 
was,  as  if  I  had,  with  the  eyes  of  my  understanding,  seen  the 
Lord  Jesus  look  down  upon  me,  as  being  very  hotly  displease'd 
with  me,  and  as  if  he  did  severely  threaten  me  with  some  griev- 
ous punishment  for  those  and  other  ungodly  practices. 


JOHN   BUNYAN  239 

"  I  had  no  sooner  thus  conceived  in  my  mind,  but  suddenly 
this  conclusion  fastened  on  my  spirit  (for  the  former  hint  did 
set  my  sins  again  before  my  face),  that  I  had  been  a  great  and 
grievous  sinner,  and  that  it  was  now  too  late  for  me  to  look  after 
Heaven ;  for  Christ  would  not  forgive  me  nor  pardon  my  trans- 
gressions. Then,  while  I  was  thinking  of  it,  and  fearing  lest  it 
should  be  so,  I  felt  my  heart  sink  in  despair,  concluding  it  was 
too  late ;  and  therefore  I  resolved  in  my  mind  to  go  on  in  sin ; 
for  thought  I,  if  the  case  be  thus,  my  state  is  surely  miserably ; 
miserable  if  I  leave  my  sins,  and  but  miserable  if  I  follow  them ; 
I  can  but  be  damned;  and  if  I  must  be  so,  I  had  as  good  be 
damned  for  many  sins  as  be  damned  for  few." 

The  reader  of  "  Pilgrim's  Progress  "  cannot  fail  here  to  call 
to  mind  the  wicked  suggestions  of  the  Giant  to  Christian,  in 
the  dungeon  of  Doubting  Castle. 

**  I  returned,"  he  says,  "  desperately  to  my  sport  again ;  and 
I  well  remember,  that  presently  this  kind  of  despair  did  so  pos- 
sess my  soul,  that  I  was  persuaded  I  could  never  attain  to  other 
comfort  than  what  I  should  get  in  sin;  for  Heaven  was  gone 
already,  so  that  on  that  I  must  not  think ;  wherefore,  I  found 
within  me  great  desire  to  take  my  fill  of  sin,  that  I  might  taste 
the  sweetness  of  it ;  and  I  made  as  much  haste  as  I  could  to  fill 
my  belly  with  its  delicates,  lest  I  should  die  before  I  had  my 
desires;  for  that  I  feared  greatly.  In  these  things,  I  protest 
before  God,  I  lie  not,  neither  do  I  frame  this  sort  of  speech; 
these  were  really,  strongly,  and  with  all  my  heart,  my  desires ; 
the  good  Lord,  whose  mercy  is  unsearchable,  forgive  my  trans- 
gressions." 

One  day,  while  standing  in  the  street,  cursing  and  blasphem- 
ing, he  met  with  a  reproof  which  startled  him.  The  woman  of 
the  house  in  front  of  which  the  wicked  young  tinker  was  stand- 
ing, herself,  as  he  remarks,  "  a  very  loose,  ungodly  wretch,"  pro- 
tested that  his  horrible  profanity  made  her  tremble ;  that  he  was 
the  ungodliest  fellow  for  swearing  she  had  ever  heard,  and  able 
to  spoil  all  the  youth  of  the  town  who  came  in  his  company. 
Struck  by  this  wholly  unexpected  rebuke,  he  at  once  abandoned 
the  practice  of  swearing;  although  previously  he  tells  us  that 
"  he  had  never  known  how  to  speak,  unless  he  put  an  oath  before 
and  another  behind." 

The  good  name  which  he  gained  by  this  change  was  now  a 


^46  WHITTIER 

temptation  to  him.  "  My  neighbors,"  he  says,  "  were  amazed 
at  my  great  conversion  from  prodigious  profaneness  to  some- 
thing Hke  a  moral  Hfe  and  sober  man.  Now,  therefore,  they  be- 
gan to  praise,  to  commend,  and  to  speak  well  of  me,  both  to  my 
face  and  behind  my  back.  Now  I  was,  as  they  said,  become 
godly ;  now  I  was  become  a  right  honest  man.  But  oh !  when 
I  understood  those  were  their  words  and  opinions  of  me,  it 
pleased  me  mighty  well ;  for  though  as  yet  I  was  nothing  but  a 
poor  painted  hypocrite,  yet  I  loved  to  be  talked  of  as  one  that 
was  truly  godly.  I  was  proud  of  my  godliness,  and,  indeed,  I 
did  all  I  did  either  to  be  seen  of  or  well  spoken  of  by  men ;  and 
thus  I  continued  for  about  a  twelvemonth  or  more." 

The  tyranny  of  his  imagination  at  this  period  is  seen  in  the 
following  relation  of  his  abandonment  of  one  of  his  favorite 
sports. 

"  Now  you  must  know,  that  before  this  I  had  taken  much 
delight  in  ringing,  but  my  conscience  beginning  to  be  tender,  I 
thought  such  practice  was  but  vain,  and  therefore  forced  myself 
to  leave  it ;  yet  my  mind  hankered ;  wherefore,  I  would  go  to 
the  steeple-house  and  look  on,  though  I  durst  not  ring;  but  I 
thought  this  did  not  become  religion  neither ;  yet  I  forced  my- 
self, and  would  look  on  still.  But  quickly  after,  I  began  to  think, 
*  How  if  one  of  the  bells  should  fall  ?  '  Then  I  chose  to  stand 
under  a  main  beam,  that  lay  overthwart  the  steeple,  from  side 
to  side,  thinking  here  I  might  stand  sure ;  but  then  I  thought 
again,  should  the  bell  fall  with  a  swing,  it  might  first  hit  the  wall, 
and  then,  rebounding  upon  me,  might  kill  me  for  all  this  beam. 
This  made  me  stand  in  the  steeple  door;  and  now,  thought  I, 
I  am  safe  enough ;  for  if  a  bell  should  then  fall,  I  can  slip  out 
behind  these  thick  walls,  and  so  be  preserved  notwithstanding. 

"  So  after  this  I  would  yet  go  to  see  them  ring,  but  would  not 
go  any  farther  than  the  steeple  door.  But  then  it  came  in  my 
head,  *  How  if  the  steeple  itself  should  fall  ?  '  And  this  thought 
(it  may,  for  aught  I  know,  when  I  stood  and  looked  on)  did 
continually  so  shake  my  mind,  that  I  durst  not  stand  at  the 
steeple  door  any  longer,  but  was  forced  to  flee,  for  fear  the 
steeple  should  fall  upon  my  head." 

About  this  time,  while  wandering  through  Bedford  in  pursuit 
of  employment,  he  chanced  to  see  three  or  four  poor  old  women 
sitting  at  a  door,  in  the  evening  sun,  and,  drawing  near  them, 


JOHN   BUNYAN  241 

heard  them  converse  upon  the  things  of  God ;  of  His  work  in 
their  hearts ;  of  their  natural  depravity ;  of  the  temptations  of 
the  Adversary ;  and  of  the  joy  of  beHeving,  and  of  the  peace  of 
reconcihation.  The  words  of  the  aged  women  found  a  response 
in  the  soul  of  the  listener.  "  He  felt  his  heart  shake,"  to  use 
his  own  words ;  he  saw  that  he  lacked  the  true  tokens  of  a  Chris- 
tian. He  now  forsook  the  company  of  the  profane  and  licen- 
tious, and  sought  that  of  a  poor  man  who  had  the  reputation  of 
piety,  but,  to  his  grief,  he  found  him  "  a  devilish  ranter,  given 
up  to  all  manner  of  uncleanness ;  he  would  laugh  at  all  exhorta- 
tions to  sobriety,  and  deny  that  there  was  a  God,  an  angel,  or  a 
spirit." 

"  Neither,"  he  continues,  "  was  this  man  only  a  temptation  to 
me,  but,  my  calling  lying  in  the  country,  I  happened  to  come 
into  several  people's  company,  who,  though  strict  in  religion 
formerly,  yet  were  also  drawn  away  by  these  ranters.  These 
would  also  talk  with  me  of  their  ways,  and  condemn  me  as 
illegal  and  dark ;  pretending  that  they  only  had  attained  to  per- 
fection, that  could  do  what  they  would,  and  not  sin.  Oh !  these 
temptations  were  suitable  to  my  flesh,  I  being  but  a  young  man, 
and  my  nature  in  its  prime ;  but  God,  who  had,  as  I  hope,  de- 
signed me  for  better  things,  kept  me  in  the  fear  of  his  name,  and 
did  not  suffer  me  to  accept  such  cursed  principles." 

At  this  time  he  was  sadly  troubled  to  ascertain  whether  or 
not  he  had  that  faith  which  the  Scriptures  spake  of.  Travelling 
one  day  from  Elstow  to  Bedford,  after  a  recent  rain,  which  had 
left  pools  of  water  in  the  path,  he  felt  a  strong  desire  to  settle 
the  question,  by  commanding  the  pools  to  become  dry,  and  the 
dry  places  to  become  pools.  Going  under  the  hedge,  to  pray 
for  ability  to  work  the  miracle,  he  was  struck  with  the  thought, 
that  if  he  failed  he  should  know,  indeed,  that  he  was  a  castaway, 
and  give  himself  up  to  despair.  He  dared  not  attempt  the  ex- 
periment, and  went  on  his  way,  to  use  his  own  forcible  language, 
"  tossed  up  and  down  between  the  devil  and  his  own  ignorance." 

Soon  after,  he  had  one  of  those  visions  which  foreshadowed 
the  wonderful  dream  of  his  "  Pilgrim's  Progress."  He  saw 
some  holy  people  of  Bedford  on  the  sunny  side  of  a  high  moun- 
tain, refreshing  themselves  in  the  pleasant  air  and  sunlight,  while 
he  was  shivering  in  cold  and  darkness,  amidst  snows  and  never- 
melting  ices,  like  the  victims  of  the  Scandinavian  hell.  A  wall 
16 


242  WHITTIER 

compassed  the  mountain,  separating  him  from  the  blessed,  with 
one  small  gap  or  doorway,  through  which,  with  great  pain  and 
effort,  he  was  at  last  enabled  to  work  his  way  into  the  sunshine, 
and  sit  down  with  the  saints,  in  the  light  and  warmth  thereof. 

But  now  a  new  trouble  assailed  him.  Like  Milton's  meta- 
physical spirits,  who  sat  apart, 

"  And  reasoned  of  foreknowledge,  will,  and  fate," 

he  grappled  with  one  of  those  great  questions  which  have  always 
perplexed  and  baffled  human  inquiry,  and  upon  which  much  has 
been  written  to  little  purpose.  He  was  tortured  with  anxiety  to 
know  whether,  according  to  the  Westminster  formula,  he  was 
elected  to  salvation  or  damnation.  His  old  adversary  vexed 
his  soul  with  evil  suggestions,  and  even  quoted  Scripture  to  en- 
force them.  ''  It  may  be  you  are  not  elected,"  said  the  Tempter, 
and  the  poor  tinker  thought  the  supposition  altogether  too  prob- 
able. "  Why,  then,"  said  Satan,  "  you  had  as  good  leave  off,  and 
strive  no  farther ;  for  if,  indeed,  you  should  not  be  elected  and 
chosen  of  God,  there  is  no  hope  of  your  being  saved ;  for  it  is 
neither  in  him  that  willeth  nor  in  him  that  runneth,  but  in  God 
who  showeth  mercy."  At  length  when,  as  he  says,  he  was  about 
giving  up  the  ghost  of  all  his  hopes,  this  passage  fell  with  weight 
upon  his  spirit :  "  Look  at  the  generations  of  old,  and  see ;  did 
ever  any  trust  in  God,  and  were  confounded?  "  Comforted  by 
these  words,  he  opened  his  Bible  to  note  them,  but  the  most  dili- 
gent search  and  inquiry  of  his  neighbors  failed  to  discover  them. 
At  length,  his  eye  fell  upon  them  in  the  apocryphal  book  of 
Ecclesiasticus.  This,  he  says,  somewhat  doubted  him  at  first, 
as  the  book  was  not  canonical ;  but  in  the  end  he  took  courage 
and  comfort  from  the  passage.  "  I  bless  God,"  he  says,  "  for 
that  word ;  it  was  good  for  me.  That  word  doth  still  oftentimes 
shine  before  my  face." 

A  long  and  weary  struggle  was  now  before  him.  "  I  cannot," 
he  says,  "  express  with  what  longings  and  breathings  of  my 
soul  I  cried  unto  Christ  to  call  me.  Gold !  could  it  have  been 
gotten  by  gold,  what  would  I  have  given  for  it.  Had  I  a  whole 
world,  it  had  all  gone  ten  thousand  times  over  for  this,  that  my 
soul  might  have  been  in  a  converted  state.  How  lovely  now 
'vas  everyone  in  my  eyes,  that  I  thought  to  be  converted  men 


JOHN  BUNYAN  ^43 

and  women.  They  shone,  they  walked  like  a  people  who  carried 
the  broad  seal  of  Heaven  with  them." 

With  what  force  and  intensity  of  language  does  he  portray 
in  the  following  passage  the  reality  and  earnestness  of  his  agon- 
izing experience : 

"  While  I  was  thus  afflicted  with  the  fears  of  my  own  damna- 
tion, there  were  two  things  would  make  me  wonder:  the  one 
was,  when  I  saw  old  people  hunting  after  the  things  of  this  life, 
as  if  they  should  live  here  always ;  the  other  was,  when  I  found 
professors  much  distressed  and  cast  down,  when  they  met  with 
outward  losses ;  as  of  husband,  wife,  or  child.  Lord,  thought 
I,  what  seeking  after  carnal  things  by  some,  and  what  grief 
in  others  for  the  loss  of  them !  If  they  so  much  labor  after  and 
shed  so  many  tears  for  the  things  of  this  present  life,  how  am  I 
to  be  bemoaned,  pitied,  and  prayed  for !  My  soul  is  dying,  my 
soul  is  damning.  Were  my  soul  but  in  a  good  condition,  and 
were  I  but  sure  of  it,  ah!  how  rich  should  I  esteem  myself, 
though  blessed  but  with  bread  and  water !  I  should  count  these 
but  small  afflictions,  and  should  bear  them  as  little  burdens.  *  A 
wounded  spirit  who  can  bear ! '  " 

He  looked  with  envy,  as  he  wandered  through  the  country, 
upon  the  birds  in  the  trees,  the  hares  in  the  preserves,  and  the 
fishes  in  the  streams.  They  were  happy  in  their  brief  existence, 
and  their  death  was  but  a  sleep.  He  felt  himself  alienated  from 
God,  a  discord  in  the  harmonies  of  the  universe.  The  very  rooks 
which  fluttered  around  the  old  church  spire  seemed  more  worthy 
of  the  Creator's  love  and  care  than  himself.  A  vision  of  the 
infernal  fire,  like  that  glimpse  of  hell  which  was  afforded  to 
Christian  by  the  Shepherds,  was  continually  before  him,  with 
its  "  rumbling  noise,  and  the  cry  of  some  tormented,  and  the 
scent  of  brimstone."  Whithersoever  he  went,  the  glare  of  it 
scorched  him,  and  its  dreadful  sound  was  in  his  ears.  His  vivid 
but  disturbed  imagination  lent  new  terrors  to  the  awful  figures 
by  which  the  sacred  writers  conveyed  the  idea  of  future  retribu- 
tion to  the  Oriental  mind.  Bunyan's  World  of  Wo,  if  it  lacked 
the  colossal  architecture  and  solemn  vastness  of  Milton's  Pan- 
demonium, was  more  clearly  defined ;  its  agonies  were  within 
the  pale  of  human  comprehension;  its  victims  were  men  and 
women,  with  the  same  keen  sense  of  corporeal  suffering  which 
they  possessed  in  life ;  and  who,  to  use  his  own  terrible  descrip- 


^44  WHITTIER 

tion,  had  "  all  the  loathed  variety  of  hell  to  grapple  with ;  fire 
unquenchable,  a  lake  of  choking  brimstone,  eternal  chains, 
darkness  more  black  than  night,  the  everlasting  gnawing  of  the 
worm,  the  sight  of  devils,  and  the  yells  and  outcries  of  the 
damned." 

His  mind  at  this  period  was  evidently  shaken  in  some  degree 
from  its  balance.  He  was  troubled  with  strange  wicked 
thoughts,  confused  by  doubts  and  blasphemous  suggestions,  for 
which  he  could  only  account  by  supposing  himself  possessed  of 
the  devil.  He  wanted  to  curse  and  swear,  and  had  to  clap  his 
hands  on  his  mouth  to  prevent  it.  In  prayer,  he  felt,  as  he  sup- 
posed, Satan  behind  him,  pulling  his  clothes,  and  telling  him 
to  have  done,  and  break  off ;  suggesting  that  he  had  better  pray 
to  him,  and  calling  up  before  his  mind's  eye  the  figures  of  a  bull, 
a  tree,  or  some  other  object,  instead  of  the  awful  idea  of  God. 

He  notes  here,  as  cause  of  thankfulness,  that,  even  in  this  dark 
and  clouded  state,  he  was  enabled  to  see  the  "  vile  and  abomi- 
nable things  fomented  by  the  Quakers,"  to  be  errors.  Gradually, 
the  shadow  wherein  he  had  so  long 

"  Walked  beneath  the  day's  broad  glare, 
A  darkened  man," 

passed  from  him,  and  for  a  season  he  was  afforded  an  "  evidence 
of  his  salvation  from  Heaven,  with  many  golden  seals  thereon 
hanging  in  his  sight."  But,  ere  long,  other  temptations  assailed 
him.  A  strange  suggestion  haunted  him,  to  sell  or  part  with  his 
Saviour.  His  own  account  of  this  hallucination  is  too  painfully 
vivid  to  awaken  any  other  feeling  than  that  of  sympathy  and 
sadness. 

"  I  could  neither  eat  my  food,  stoop  for  a  pin,  chop  a  stick,  or 
cast  mine  eye  to  look  on  this  or  that,  but  still  the  temptation 
would  come.  Sell  Christ  for  this,  or  sell  Christ  for  that ;  sell  him, 
sell  him. 

"  Sometimes  it  would  run  in  my  thoughts,  not  so  little  as  a 
hundred  times  together,  Sell  him,  sell  him;  against  which,  I 
may  say,  for  whole  hours  together,  I  have  been  forced  to  stand 
as  continually  leaning  and  forcing  my  spirit  against  it,  lest  haply, 
before  I  were  aware,  some  wicked  thought  might  arise  in  my 
heart,  that  might  consent  thereto;  and  sometimes  the  Tempter 


JOHN   BUNYAN  245 

would  make  me  believe  I  had  consented  to  it ;  but  then  I  should 
be  as  tortured  upon  a  rack,  for  whole  days  together. 

"  This  temptation  did  put  me  to  such  scares,  lest  I  should 
at  sometimes,  I  say,  consent  thereto,  and  be  overcome  therewith, 
that,  by  the  very  force  of  my  mind,  my  very  body  would  be  piit 
into  action  or  motion,  by  way  of  pushing  or  thrusting  with  my 
hands  or  elbows ;  still  answering,  as  fast  as  the  destroyer  said. 
Sell  him,  I  will  not,  I  will  not,  I  will  not ;  no,  not  for  thousands, 
thousands,  thousands  of  worlds ;  thus  reckoning,  lest  I  should 
set  too  low  a  value  on  him,  even  until  I  scarce  well  knew  where 
I  was,  or  how  to  be  composed  again. 

"  But  to  be  brief :  one  morning,  as  I  did  lie  in  my  bed,  I  was, 
as  at  other  times,  most  fiercely  assaulted  with  this  temptation,  to 
sell  and  part  with  Christ;  the  wicked  suggestion  still  running 
in  my  mind,  Sell  him,  sell  him,  sell  him,  sell  him,  sell  him,  as  fast 
as  a  man  could  speak;  against  which,  also,  in  my  mind,  as  at 
other  times,  I  answered,  No,  no,  not  for  thousands,  thousands, 
thousands,  at  least  twenty  times  together ;  but  at  last,  after  much 
striving,  I  felt  this  thought  pass  through  my  heart,  Let  him  go 
if  he  will;  and  I  thought  also,  that  I  felt  my  heart  freely  consent 
thereto.  Oh !  the  diligence  of  Satan !  Oh !  the  desperateness 
of  man's  heart ! 

"  Now  was  the  battle  won,  and  down  fell  I,  as  a  bird  that  is 
shot  from  the  top  of  a  tree,  into  great  guilt,  and  fearful  despair. 
Thus  getting  out  of  my  bed,  I  went  moping  into  the  field ;  but 
God  knows,  with  as  heavy  a  heart  as  mortal  man,  I  think,  could 
bear ;  where,  for  the  space  of  two  hours,  I  was  like  a  man  bereft 
of  life ;  and,  as  now,  past  all  recovery,  and  bound  over  to  eternal 
punishment. 

"  And  withal,  that  Scripture  did  seize  upon  my  soul :  *  Or 
profane  person,  as  Esau,  who,  for  one  morsel  of  meat,  sold  his 
birthright;  for  ye  know,  how  that  afterward,  when  he  would 
have  inherited  the  blessing,  he  was  rejected ;  for  he  found  no 
place  for  repentance,  though  he  sought  it  carefully  with  tears.'  " 

For  two  years  and  a  half,  as  he  informs  us,  that  awful  Script- 
ure sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  knell  of  a  lost  soul.  He  be- 
lieved that  he  had  committed  the  unpardonable  sin.  His  mental 
anguish  was  united  with  bodily  illness  and  suffering.  His  nerv- 
ous system  became  fearfully  deranged ;  his  limbs  trembled ;  and 
he  supposed  this  visible  tremulousness  and  agitation  to  be  the 


246  WHITTIER 

mark  of  Cain.  Troubled  with  pain  and  distressing  sensations 
in  his  chest,  he  began  to  fear  that  his  breastbone  would  spHt 
open,  and  that  he  should  perish  like  Judas  Iscariot.  He  feared 
that  the  tiles  of  the  houses  would  fall  upon  him  as  he  walked  the 
streets.  He  was  like  his  own  Man  in  the  Cage  at  the  House  of 
the  Interpreter,  shut  out  from  the  promises,  and  looking  for- 
ward to  certain  judgment.  "  Methought,"  he  says,  "  the  very- 
sun  that  shineth  in  heaven  did  grudge  to  give  me  light."  And 
still  the  dreadful  words,  "  He  found  no  place  for  repentance, 
though  he  sought  it  carefully  with  tears,"  sounded  in  the  depths 
of  his  soul.  They  were,  he  says,  like  fetters  of  brass  to  his  legs, 
and  their  continual  clanking  followed  him  for  months.  Regard- 
ing himself  elected  and  predestined  for  damnation,  he  thought 
that  all  things  worked  for  his  damage  and  eternal  overthrow, 
while  all  things  wrought  for  the  best,  and  to  do  good  to  the 
elect  and  called  of  God  unto  salvation.  God  and  all  His  universe 
had,  he  thought,  conspired  against  him;  the  green  earth,  the 
bright  waters,  the  sky  itself,  were  written  over  with  his  irrevo- 
cable curse. 

Well  was  it  said  by  Bunyan's  contemporary,  the  excellent 
Cudworth,  in  his  eloquent  sermon  before  the  Long  Parliament, 
that  "  we  are  nowhere  commanded  to  pry  into  the  secrets  of  God, 
but  the  wholesome  advice  given  us  is  this :  '  To  make  our  calling 
and  election  sure.'  We  have  no  warrant  from  Scripture  to  peep 
into  the  hidden  rolls  of  eternity,  to  spell  out  our  names  among 
the  stars."  "  Must  we  say  that  God  sometimes,  to  exercise  His 
uncontrollable  dominion,  delights  rather  in  plunging  wretched 
souls  down  into  infernal  night  and  everlasting  darkness  ?  What, 
then,  shall  we  make  the  God  of  the  whole  world  ?  Nothing  but 
a  cruel  and  dreadful  Errinys,  with  curled  fiery  snakes  about  His 
head,  and  firebrands  in  His  hand ;  thus  governing  the  world ! 
Surely,  this  will  make  us  either  secretly  think  there  is  no  God  in 
the  world,  if  He  must  needs  be  such,  or  else  to  wish  heartily  there 
were  none."  It  was  thus  at  times  with  Bunyan.  He  was 
tempted,  in  this  season  of  despair,  to  believe  that  there  was  no 
resurrection  and  no  judgment. 

One  day  he  tells  us  a  sudden  rushing  sound,  as  of  wind  or 
the  wings  of  angels,  came  to  him  through  the  window,  wonder- 
fully sweet  and  pleasant ;  and  it  was  as  if  a  voice  spoke  to  him 
from  heaven  words  of  encouragement  and  hope,  which,  to  use 


JOHN   BUNYAN  247 

his  language,  commanded,  for  the  time,  "  a  silence  in  his  heart 
to  all  those  tumultuous  thoughts  that  did  use,  like  masterless 
hell-hounds,  to  roar  and  bellow  and  make  a  hideous  noise  within 
him."  About  this  time,  also,  some  comforting  passages  of 
Scripture  were  called  to  mind ;  but  he  remarks,  that  whenever 
he  strove  to  apply  them  to  his  case,  Satan  would  thrust  the 
curse  of  Esau  in  his  face,  and  wrest  the  good  word  from  him. 
The  blessed  promise,  "  Him  that  cometh  to  me,  I  will  in  no  wise 
cast  out,"  was  the  chief  instrumentality  in  restoring  his  lost 
peace.  He  says  of  it :  "If  ever  Satan  and  I  did  strive  for  any 
word  of  God  in  all  my  life,  it  was  for  this  good  word  of  Christ ; 
he  at  one  end,  and  I  at  the  other ;  oh,  what  work  we  made !  It 
was  for  this  in  John,  I  say,  that  we  did  so  tug  and  strive ;  he 
pulled,  and  I  pulled,  but,  God  be  praised !  I  overcame  him ;  I 
got  sweetness  from  it.  Oh  !  many  a  pull  hath  my  heart  had  with 
Satan  for  this  blessed  sixth  chapter  of  John !  " 

Who  does  not  here  call  to  mind  the  struggle  between  Chris- 
tian and  Apollyon  in  the  valley !  That  was  no  fancy  sketch ;  it 
was  the  narrative  of  the  author's  own  grapple  with  the  Spirit  of 
Evil.  Like  his  ideal  Christian,  he  "  conquered  through  Him  that 
loved  him."  Love  wrought  the  victory :  the  Scripture  of  For- 
giveness overcame  that  of  Hatred. 

He  never  afterwards  relapsed  into  that  state  of  religious 
melancholy  from  which  he  so  hardly  escaped.  He  speaks  of  his 
deliverance,  as  the  waking  out  of  a  troublesome  dream.  His 
painful  experience  was  not  lost  upon  him ;  for  it  gave  him,  ever 
after,  a  tender  sympathy  for  the  weak,  the  sinful,  the  ignorant, 
and  desponding.  In  some  measure,  he  had  been  "  touched  with 
the  feeling  of  their  infirmities."  He  could  feel  for  those  in  the 
bonds  of  sin  and  despair,  as  bound  with  them.  Hence  his  power 
as  a  preacher;  hence  the  wonderful  adaptation  of  his  great 
allegory  to  all  the  variety  of  spiritual  conditions.  Like  Fearing, 
he  had  lain  a  month  in  the  Slough  of  Despond,  and  had  played, 
like  him,  the  long  melancholy  bass  of  spiritual  heaviness.  With 
Feeble-mind,  he  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  Slay-good,  of  the 
nature  of  Man-eaters ;  and  had  limped  along  his  difficult  way 
upon  the  crutches  of  Ready-to-halt.  Who  better  than  himself 
could  describe  the  condition  of  Despondency,  and  his  daughter 
Muchaf raid,  in  the  dungeon  of  Doubting  Castle  ?  Had  he  not 
also  fallen  among  thieves,  like  Little-faith  ? 


248  WHITTIER 

His  account  of  his  entering  upon  the  solemn  duties  of  a 
preacher  of  the  gospel  is  at  once  curious  and  instructive.  He 
deals  honestly  with  himself,  exposing  all  his  various  moods, 
weaknesses,  doubts,  and  temptations.  *'  I  preached,"  he  says, 
"  what  I  felt ;  for  the  terrors  of  the  law  and  the  guilt  of  trans- 
gression lay  heavy  on  my  conscience.  I  have  been  as  one  sent  to 
them  from  the  dead.  I  went,  myself  in  chains,  to  preach  to  them 
in  chains ;  and  carried  that  fire  in  my  conscience  which  I  per- 
suaded them  to  beware  of."  At  times,  when  he  stood  up  to 
preach,  blasphemies  and  evil  doubts  rushed  into  his  mind,  and 
he  felt  a  strong  desire  to  utter  them  aloud  to  his  congregation ; 
and  at  other  seasons,  when  he  was  about  to  apply  to  the  sinner 
some  searching  and  fearful  text  of  Scripture,  he  was  tempted 
to  withhold  it,  on  the  ground  that  it  condemned  himself  also; 
but,  withstanding  the  suggestion  of  the  Tempter,  to  use  his  own 
simile,  he  bowed  himself  like  Samson  to  condemn  sin  wherever 
he  found  it,  though  he  brought  guilt  and  condemnation  upon 
himself  thereby,  choosing  rather  to  die  with  the  Philistines  than 
to  deny  the  truth. 

Foreseeing  the  consequences  of  exposing  himself  to  the  opera- 
tion of  the  penal  laws  by  holding  conventicles  and  preaching, 
he  was  deeply  afflicted  at  the  thought  of  the  suffering  and  desti- 
tution to  which  his  wife  and  children  might  be  exposed  by  his 
death  or  imprisonment.  Nothing  can  be  more  touching  than  his 
simple  and  earnest  words  on  this  point.  They  show  how  warm 
and  deep  were  his  human  affections,  and  what  a  tender  and  lov- 
ing heart  he  laid  as  a  sacrifice  on  the  altar  of  duty : 

"  I  found  myself  a  man  compassed  with  infirmities ;  the  part- 
ing with  my  wife  and  poor  children,  hath  often  been  to  me  in  this 
place,  as  the  pulling  the  flesh  from  the  bones ;  and  also  it  brought 
to  my  mind  the  many  hardships,  miseries,  and  wants,  that  my 
poor  family  was  Hke  to  meet  with,  should  I  be  taken  from  them, 
especially  my  poor  blind  child,  who  lay  nearer  my  heart  than  all 
beside.  Oh !  the  thoughts  of  the  hardships  I  thought  my  poor 
blind  one  might  go  under,  would  break  my  heart  to  pieces. 

"  Poor  child !  thought  I,  what  sorrow  art  thou  like  to  have 
for  thy  portion  in  this  world !  thou  must  be  beaten,  must  beg, 
suffer  hunger,  cold,  nakedness,  and  a  thousand  calamities, 
though  I  cannot  now  endure  the  wind  should  blow  upon  thee. 
But  yet,  thought  I,  I  must  venture  you  all  with  God,  though  it 


JOHN  BUNYAN  249 

goeth  to  the  quick  to  leave  you :  Oh !  I  saw  I  was  as  a  man 
who  was  pulling  down  his  house  upon  the  heads  of  his  wife  and 
children ;  yet  I  thought  on  those  *  two  milch  kine  that  were  to 
carry  the  ark  of  God  into  another  country,  and  to  leave  their 
calves  behind  them.' 

*'  But  that  which  helped  me  in  this  temptation  was  divers 
considerations:  the  first  was,  the  consideration  of  those  two 
Scriptures,  *  Leave  thy  fatherless  children,  I  will  preserve  them 
alive ;  and  let  thy  widows  trust  in  me : '  and  again,  *  The  Lord 
said,  verily  it  shall  go  well  with  thy  remnant ;  verily  I  will  cause 
the  enemy  to  entreat  them  well  in  the  time  of  evil.'  " 

He  was  arrested  in  1660,  charged  with  "  devilishly  and  per- 
niciously abstaining  from  church,"  and  of  being  "  a  common  up- 
holder of  conventicles."  At  the  quarter  sessions,  where  his  trial 
seems  to  have  been  conducted  somewhat  like  that  of  Faithful  at 
Vanity  Fair,  he  was  sentenced  to  perpetual  banishment.  This 
sentence,  however,  was  never  executed,  but  he  was  remanded 
to  Bedford  jail,  where  he  lay  a  prisoner  for  twelve  years. 

Here,  shut  out  from  the  world,  with  no  other  books  than  the 
Bible  and  Fox's  "  Martyrs,"  he  penned  that  great  work  which 
has  attained  a  wider  and  more  stable  popularity  than  any  other 
book  in  the  English  tongue.  It  is  alike  the  favorite  of  the  nur- 
sery and  the  study.  Many  experienced  Christians  hold  it  only 
second  to  the  Bible ;  the  infidel  himself  would  not  willingly  let 
it  die.  Men  of  all  sects  read  it  with  delight,  as  in  the  main  a 
truthful  representation  of  the  Christian  pilgrimage,  without  in- 
deed assenting  to  all  the  doctrines  which  the  author  puts  in  the 
mouth  of  his  fighting  sermonizer,  Greatheart,  or  which  may  be 
deduced  from  some  other  portions  of  his  allegory.  A  recollec- 
tion of  his  fearful  sufferings,  from  misapprehension  of  a  single 
text  in  the  Scriptures,  relative  to  the  question  of  election,  we 
may  suppose  gave  a  milder  tone  to  the  theology  of  his  Pilgrim 
than  was  altogether  consistent  with  the  Calvinism  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  **  Religion,"  says  Macaulay,  "  has  scarcely  ever 
worn  a  form  so  calm  and  soothing  as  in  Bunyan's  allegory."  In 
composing  it,  he  seems  never  to  have  altogether  lost  sight  of 
the  fact,  that,  in  his  life  and  death  struggle  with  Satan  for  the 
blessed  promise  recorded  by  the  Apostle  of  Love,  the  adversary 
was  generally  found  on  the  Genevan  side  of  the  argument. 
Little  did  the  short-sighted  persecutors  of  Bunyan  dream, 


250 


WHITTIER 


when  they  closed  upon  him  the  door  of  Bedford  jail,  that  God 
would  overrule  their  poor  spite  and  envy,  to  his  own  glory  and 
the  world-wide  renown  of  their  victim.  In  the  solitude  of  his 
prison,  the  ideal  forms  of  beauty  and  sublimity,  which  had  long 
flitted  before  him  vaguely,  like  the  vision  of  the  Temanite,  took 
shape  and  coloring ;  and  he  was  endowed  with  power  to  reduce 
them  to  order,  and  arrange  them  in  harmonious  groupings.  His 
powerful  imagination,  no  longer  self-tormenting,  but  under  the 
direction  of  reason  and  grace,  expanded  his  narrow  cell  into  a 
vast  theatre,  lighted  up  for  the  display  of  its  wonders.  To  this 
creative  faculty  of  his  mind  might  have  been  aptly  applied  the 
language  which  George  Wither,  a  contemporary  prisoner,  ad- 
dressed to  his  muse : 

"  The  dull  loneness,  the  black  shade 
Which  these  hanging  vaults  have  made. 
The  rude  portals  that  give  light 
More  to  terror  than  delight; 
This  my  chamber  of  neglect, 
Walled  about  with  disrespect — 
From  all  these,  and  this  dull  air, 
A  fit  object  for  despair, 
She  hath  taught  me  by  her  might, 
To  draw  comfort  and  delight." 

That  stony  cell  of  his  was  to  him  like  the  rock  of  Padan-aram 
to  the  wandering  patriarch.  He  saw  angels  ascending  and  de- 
scending. The  House  Beautiful  rose  up  before  him,  and  its  holy 
sisterhood  welcomed  him.  He  looked,  with  his  Pilgrim,  from 
the  Chamber  of  Peace.  The  Valley  of  Humiliation  lay  stretched 
out  beneath  his  eye,  and  he  heard  "  the  curious  melodious  note 
of  the  country  birds,  who  sing  all  the  day  long  in  the  spring- 
time, when  the  flowers  appear,  and  the  sun  shines  warm,  and 
make  the  woods  and  groves  and  solitary  places  glad."  Side  by 
side  with  the  good  Christiana  and  the  loving  Mercy,  he  walked 
through  the  green  and  lowly  valley,  "  fruitful  as  any  the  crow 
flies  over,"  through  "  meadows  beautiful  with  lilies ;  "  the  song 
of  the  poor  but  fresh-faced  shepherd  boy,  who  lived  a  merry 
life,  and  wore  the  herb  heart's-ease  in  his  bosom,  sounded 
through  his  cell : 

"  He  that  is  down  need  fear  no  fall ; 
He  that  is  low  no  pride." 


JOHN   BUNYAN  251 

The  broad  and  pleasant  "  river  of  the  Water  of  Life  "  glided 
peacefully  before  him,  fringed  **  on  either  side  with  green  trees, 
with  all  manner  of  fruit,"  and  leaves  of  healing,  with  "  meadows 
beautified  with  lilies,  and  green  all  the  year  long ; "  he  saw  the 
Delectable  Mountains,  glorious  with  sunshine,  overhung  with 
gardens  and  orchards  and  vineyards ;  and  beyond  all,  the  Land 
of  Beulah,  with  its  eternal  sunshine,  its  song  of  birds,  its  music 
of  fountains,  its  purple  clustered  vines,  and  groves  through 
which  walked  the  Shining  Ones,  silver-winged  and  beautiful. 

What  were  bars  and  bolts  and  prison  walls  to  him,  whose 
eyes  were  anointed  to  see,  and  whose  ears  opened  to  hear,  the 
glory  and  the  rejoicing  of  the  City  of  God,  when  the  pilgrims 
were  conducted  to  its  golden  gates,  from  the  black  and  bitter 
river,  with  the  sounding  trumpeters,  the  transfigured  harpers 
with  their  crowns  of  gold,  the  sweet  voices  of  angels,  the  wel- 
coming peal  of  bells  in  the  holy  city,  and  the  songs  of  the  re- 
deemed ones  ?  In  reading  the  concluding  pages  of  the  first  part 
of  "  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  we  feel  as  if  the  mysterious  glory  of 
the  Beatific  Vision  was  unveiled  before  us.  We  are  dazzled  with 
the  excess  of  light.  We  are  entranced  with  the  mighty  melody ; 
overwhelmed  by  the  great  anthem  of  rejoicing  spirits.  It  can 
only  be  adequately  described  in  the  language  of  Milton  in  re- 
spect to  the  apocalypse,  as  "  a  seven-fold  chorus  of  hallelujahs 
and  harping  symphonies." 

Few  who  read  Bunyan  nowadays  think  of  him  as  one  of  the 
brave  old  English  confessors,  whose  steady  and  firm  endurance 
of  persecution  baffled,  and  in  the  end  overcame,  the  tyranny  of 
the  established  church  in  the  reign  of  Charles  II.  What  Milton 
and  Penn  and  Locke  wrote  in  defence  of  liberty,  Bunyan  lived 
out  and  acted.  He  made  no  concessions  to  wordly  rank.  Disso- 
lute lords  and  proud  bishops  he  counted  less  than  the  humblest 
and  poorest  of  his  disciples  at  Bedford.  When  first  arrested 
and  thrown  into  prison,  he  supposed  he  should  be  called  to  suf- 
fer death  for  his  faithful  testimony  to  the  truth ;  and  his  great 
fear  was,  that  he  should  not  meet  his  fate  with  the  requisite  firm- 
ness, and  so  dishonor  the  cause  of  his  Master.  And  when  dark 
clouds  came  over  him,  and  he  sought  in  vain  for  a  sufficient  evi- 
dence that  in  the  event  of  his  death  it  would  be  well  with  him, 
he  girded  up  his  soul  with  the  reflection,  that,  as  he  suffered  for 
the  word  and  way  of  God,  he  was  engaged  not  to  shrink  one 


252  WHITTIER 

hair's  breadth  from  it.  "  I  will  leap,"  he  says,  "  off  the  ladder 
blindfold  into  eternity,  sink  or  swim,  come  heaven,  come  hell. 
Lord  Jesus,  if  thou  wilt  catch  me,  do ;  if  not,  I  will  venture  in 
thy  name !  " 

The  English  revolution  of  the  seventeenth  century,  while  it 
humbled  the  false  and  oppressive  aristocracy  of  rank  and  title, 
was  prodigal  in  the  development  of  the  real  nobility  of  the  mind 
and  heart.  Its  history  is  bright  with  the  footprints  of  men 
whose  very  names  still  stir  the  hearts  of  freemen,  the  world 
over,  Hke  a  trumpet  peal.  Say  what  we  may  of  its  fanaticism, 
laugh  as  we  may  at  its  extravagant  enjoyment  of  newly  acquired 
religious  and  civil  liberty,  who  shall  now  venture  to  deny  that 
it  was  the  golden  age  of  England  ?  Who  that  regards  freedom 
above  slavery,  will  now  sympathize  with  the  outcry  and  lamenta- 
tion of  those  interested  in  the  continuance  of  sects  and  schism, 
but  who,  at  the  same  time,  as  Milton  shrewdly  intimates,  dreaded 
more  the  rending  of  their  pontifical  sleeves  than  the  rending  of 
the  church  ?  Who  shall  now  sneer  at  Puritanism,  with  the  "  De- 
fence of  Unlicensed  Printing "  before  him  ?  Who  scoff  at 
Quakerism  over  the  journal  of  George  Fox?  Who  shall  join 
with  debauched  lordlings  and  fat-witted  prelates  in  ridicule  of 
Anabaptist  levellers  and  dippers,  after  rising  from  the  perusal 
of  "  Pilgrim's  Progress?  "  "  There  were  giants  in  those  days." 
And  foremost  amidst  that  band  of  Hberty-loving  and  God-fear- 
ing men, 

"  The  slandered  Calvinists  of  Charles's  time, 
Who  fought,  and  won  it,  freedom's  holy  fight," 

stands  the  subject  of  our  sketch,  the  tinker  of  Elstow.  Of  his 
high  merit  as  an  author  there  is  no  longer  any  question.  The 
"  Edinburgh  Review  "  expressed  the  common  sentiment  of  the 
literary  world,  when  it  declared  that  the  two  great  creative  minds 
of  the  seventeenth  century  were  those  which  produced  "  Para- 
dise Lost  "  and  the  "  Pilgrim's  Progress." 


THE    PHILOSOPHY    OF    COMPOSITION 


BY 


EDGAR    ALLAN     POE 


EDGAR  ALLAN   POE 
1809 — 1849 

The  father  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe  came  of  a  good  Maryland  family ;  his 
mother  was  a  young  English  actress.  After  their  marriage,  which  re- 
sulted in  his  father  being  disinherited,  both  gained  a  somewhat  uncer- 
tain livelihood  on  the  stage,  and  it  was  on  one  of  their  tours  that  their 
son,  Edgar,  was  born,  at  Boston  in  1809.  Three  years  later  he  was  left 
an  orphan,  but  was  ultimately  adopted  by  a  wealthy  Richmond  family 
named  Allan.  He  received  his  early  education  in  England,  at  Stoke- 
Newington,  near  London,  and  we  have  a  vivid  account  of  his  childish 
impressions  of  this  period  in  the  semi-autobiographical  tale  "  William 
Wilson."  On  his  return  to  America  he  was  sent  to  a  private  school  near 
Richmond,  and  later  to  the  University  of  Virginia.  After  two  years  of 
study,  interrupted  somewhat  by  a  wild  and  unrestrained  life,  his  foster- 
father  decided  he  should  leave  college.  Soon  afterwards  he  ran  away, 
and  tried  to  gain  his  livelihood  by  the  pen.  His  first  literary  effort 
was  "  Tamerlane,  and  Other  Poems,"  published  at  Boston  in  1827. 
He  met,  however,  with  no  encouragement  in  this  attempt,  and  conse- 
quently joined  the  army.  After  a  year  of  this  life  his  guardian  pro- 
cured his  discharge,  and  he  returned  to  Richmond.  A  second  volume 
of  poems  was  published  in  1829,  but  met  with  no  more  favorable 
reception  than  the  first.  In  1830  he  entered  the  military  academy  at 
West  Point,  the  appointment  having  been  secured  for  him  by  Mr.  Allan, 
but  he  was  dismissed  for  neglect  of  duties  in  less  than  a  year. 

In  183 1  Poe  settled  in  Baltimore,  and  began  a  journalistic  and  literary 
career  that  continued  till  his  death.  His  first  notable  success  was  a 
prize  story,  "  The  Manuscript  found  in  a  Bottle,"  which  secured  for 
him  a  position  as  editor  of  the  "  Southern  Literary  Messenger,"  at 
Richmond.  His  criticisms  and  tales  now  gained  for  him  a  wide  repu- 
tation, but  his  restless  spirit  soon  prompted  him  to  resign  his  editor- 
ship, and  in  1837  he  removed  to  New  York,  where  he  supported  him- 
self by  contributing  to  the  "  New  York  Quarterly  Review  "  and  other 
periodicals.  From  1839-40  he  was  editor  of  "  The  Gentleman's  Maga- 
zine," at  Philadelphia.  Afterwards  he  edited  '*  Graham's  Magazine  " 
for  a  year.  In  1845  he  went  to  New  York,  where  he  was  associated  for 
a  while  with  Charles  F.  Briggs  in  editing  the  "  Broadway  Journal." 
In  1840  he  brought  out  "  Tales  of  the  Grotesque  and  Arabesque,"  and, 
in  1845,  he  issued  "  The  Raven,  and  Other  Poems."  At  no  time  during 
this  period  was  Poe  in  comfortable  circumstances,  and  his  desire  for 
strong  drink  grew  upon  him  steadily.  In  1847  his  child  wife  died,  and 
he  entered  upon  the  darkest  and  most  tragic  stage  of  his  life.  He  died 
two  years  later  at  the  Washington  Hospital  in  Baltimore,  at  the  age 
of  forty. 

Poe's  position  in  American  literature  is  unique.  Undoubtedly  pos- 
sessed of  genius  of  a  high  order,  his  work  is  as  remarkable  for  the  nar- 
rowness of  its  range  as  for  its  perfection  within  the  self-prescribed  lim- 
its. His  poems  are  not  numerous,  but  include  some  of  the  most  weird 
and  fantastic  poems  in  all  literature.  His  tales,  too,  are  comparatively 
few  in  number,  but  many  of  them  are  original  and  effective.  As  a 
literary  critic  Poe  enjoyed  considerable  reputation  in  his  day,  and  many 
of  his  literary  essays  are  examples  of  an  admirable  prose  style,  as, 
for  instance,  "  The  Philosophy  of  Composition,"  written  in  1846,  in 
which  he  discusses  his  own  masterpiece,  "  The  Raven."  Poe's  writ- 
ings show  no  trace  of  humor,  and  little  or  no  human  sympathy.  But 
in  his  keen  sense  of  the  weird  and  the  grotesque,  in  his  <;nl^,1p  ppjjip- 
ciation  of  word  values,  in  his  portrayal  of  gloom,  mystery,  mental  a ifid 
physical  decay,  and  death,  and  in  his  power  of  expressing  the  emotions 
of  terror,  inconsolable  grief  and  desire,  Poe  has  no  superior. 

254 


THE   PHILOSOPHY  OF  COMPOSITION 

CHARLES  DICKENS,  in  a  note  now  lying  before  me, 
alluding  to  an  examination  I  once  made  of  the  mechan- 
ism of  "  Barnaby  Rudge,"  says — **  By  the  way,  are  you 
aware  that  Godwin  wrote  his  '  Caleb  Williams '  backwards  ? 
He  first  involved  his  hero  in  a  web  of  difficulties,  forming  the 
second  volume,  and  then,  for  the  first,  cast  about  him  for  some 
mode  of  accounting  for  what  had  been  done." 

I  cannot  think  this  the  precise  mode  of  procedure  on  the  part 
of  Godwin — and  indeed  what  he  himself  acknowledges  is  not 
altogether  in  accordance  with  Mr.  Dickens's  idea — ^but  the  author 
of  "  Caleb  Williams  "  was  too  good  an  artist  not  to  perceive  the 
advantage  derivable  from  at  least  a  somewhat  similar  process. 
Nothing  is  more  clear  than  that  every  plot,  worth  the  name,  must 
be  elaborated  to  its  denouement  before  anything  be  attempted 
with  the  pen.  It  is  only  with  the  denouement  constantly  in  view 
that  we  can  give  a  plot  its  indispensable  air  of  consequence,  or 
causation,  by  making  the  incidents,  and  especially  the  tone  at  all 
points,  tend  to  the  development  of  the  intention. 

There  is  a  radical  error,  I  think,  in  the  usual  mode  of  con- 
structing a  story.  Either  history  affords  a  thesis — or  one  is 
suggested  by  an  incident  of  the  day — or,  at  best,  the  author  sets 
himself  to  work  in  the  combination  of  striking  events  to  form 
merely  the  basis  of  his  narrative — designing,  generally,  to  fill  in 
with  description,  dialogue,  or  authorial  comment,  whatever 
crevices  of  fact  or  action  may,  from  page  to  page,  render  them- 
selves apparent. 

I  prefer  commencing  with  the  consideration  of  an  effect. 
Keeping  originality  always  in  view — for  he  is  false  to  himself 
who  ventures  to  dispense  with  so  obvious  and  so  easily  attain- 
able a  source  of  interest — I  say  to  myself,  in  the  first  place,  "  Of 
the  innumerabfe  effects  or  impressions  of  which  the  heart,  the 
intellect,  or  (more  generally)  the  soul  is  susceptible,  what  one 

255 


^56  POE 

shall  I,  on  the  present  occasion,  select  ?  "  Having  chosen  a 
novel  first,  and  secondly,  a  vivid  effect,  I  consider  whether  it  can 
be  best  wrought  by  incident  or  tone — whether  by  ordinary  inci- 
dents and  peculiar  tone,  or  the  converse,  or  by  peculiarity  both 
of  incident  and  tone — afterwards  looking  about  me  (or  rather 
within)  for  such  combinations  of  event  or  tone  as  shall  best  aid 
me  in  the  construction  of  the  effect. 

I  have  often  thought  how  interesting  a  magazine  paper  might 
be  written  by  any  author  who  would — that  is  to  say,  who  could 
— detail,  step  by  step,  the  processes  by  which  any  one  of  his  com- 
positions attained  its  ultimate  point  of  completion.  Why  such 
a  paper  has  never  been  given  to  the  world  I  am  much  at  a  loss 
to  say — but  perhaps  the  authorial  vanity  has  had  more  to  do 
with  the  omission  than  any  one  other  cause.  Most  writers — 
poets  in  especial — prefer  having  it  understood  that  they  com- 
pose by  a  species  of  fine  frenzy — an  ecstatic  intuition — and 
would  positively  shudder  at  letting  the  public  take  a  peep  be- 
hind the  scenes,  at  the  elaborate  and  vacillating  crudities  of 
thought — at  the  true  purposes  seized  only  at  the  last  moment — 
at  the  innumerable  glimpses  of  idea  that  arrived  not  at  the  ma- 
turity of  full  view — at  the  fully  matured  fancies  discarded  in 
despair  as  unmanageable — at  the  cautious  selections  and  rejec- 
tions— at  the  painful  erasures  and  interpolations — in  a  word, 
at  the  wheels  and  pinions — the  tackle  for  scene-shifting — the 
step-ladders  and  demon-traps — the  cock's  feathers,  the  red  paint 
and  the  black  patches,  which,  in  ninety-nine  cases  out  of  the 
hundred,  constitute  the  properties  of  the  literary  histrio. 

I  am  aware,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the  case  is  by  no  means 
common  in  which  an  author  is  at  all  in  condition  to  retrace  the 
steps  by  which  his  conclusions  have  been  attained.  In  general, 
suggestions,  having  arisen  pell-mell,  are  pursued  and  forgotten 
in  a  similar  manner. 

For  my  own  part,  I  have  neither  sympathy  with  the  repug- 
nance alluded  to,  nor,  at  any  time,  the  least  difficulty  in  recalling 
to  mind  the  progressive  steps  of  any  of  my  compositions ;  and, 
since  the  interest  of  an  analysis,  or  reconstruction,  such  as  I 
have  considered  a  desideratum,  is  quite  independent  of  any  real 
or  fancied  interest  in  the  thing  analyzed,  it  will  not  be  regarded 
as  a  breach  of  decorum  on  my  part  to  show  the  modus  operandi 
by  which  some  one  of  my  own  works  was  put  together.    I  select 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF   COMPOSITION  257 

"  The  Raven  "  as  most  generally  known.  It  is  my  design  to 
render  it  manifest  that  no  one  point  in  its  composition  is  refer- 
able either  to  accident  or  intuition — that  the  work  proceeded 
step  by  step  to  its  completion  with  the  precision  and  rigid  con- 
sequence of  a  mathematical  problem. 

Let  us  dismiss,  as  irrelevant  to  the  poem,  per  se,  the  circum- 
stance— or  say  the  necessity — which,  in  the  first  place,  gave  rise 
to  the  intention  of  composing  a  poem  that  should  suit  at  once 
the  popular  and  the  critical  taste. 

We  commence,  then,  with  this  intention. 

The  initial  consideration  was  that  of  extent.  If  any  literary 
work  is  too  long  to  be  read  at  one  sitting,  we  must  be  content 
to  dispense  with  the  immensely  important  effect  derivable  from 
unity  of  impression — for,  if  two  sittings  be  required,  the  affairs 
of  the  world  interfere,  and  everything  like  totality  is  at  once 
destroyed.  But  since,  ccoteris  paribus,  no  poet  can  a|¥ord  to  dis- 
pense with  anything  that  may  advance  his  design,  it  but  remains 
to  be  seen  whether  there  is,  in  extent,  any  advantage  to  counter- 
balance the  loss  of  unity  which  attends  it.  Here  I  say  no  at 
once.  What  we  term  a  long  poem  is,  in  fact,  merely  a  succession 
of  brief  ones — that  is  to  say,  of  brief  poetical  effects.  It  is 
needless  to  demonstrate  that  a  poem  is  such  only  inasmuch  as  it 
intensely  excites,  by  elevating  the  soul ;  and  all  intense  excite- 
ments are,  through  a  psychical  necessity,  brief.  For  this  rea- 
son at  least  one-half  of  the  "  Paradise  Lost  "  is  essentially  prose 
— a  succession  of  poetical  excitements  interpersed,  inevitably, 
with  corresponding  depressions — the  whole  being  deprived, 
through  the  extremeness  of  its  length,  of  the  vastly  important 
artistic  element,  totality,  or  unity  of  effect. 

It  appears  evident,  then,  that  there  is  a  distinct  limit,  as  re- 
gards length,  to  all  works  of  literary  art — the  limit  of  a  single 
sitting — and  that,  although  in  certain  classes  of  pure  composi- 
tion, such  as  "  Robinson  Crusoe  "  (demanding  no  unity),  this 
limit  may  be  advantageously  overpassed,  it  can  never  properly 
be  overpassed  in  a  poem.  Within  this  Hmit  the  extent  of  a  poem 
may  be  made  to  bear  mathematical  relation  to  its  merit — in 
other  words,  to  the  excitement  or  elevation — again,  in  other 
words,  to  the  degree  of  the  true  poetical  effect  which  it  is  capable 
of  inducing;  for  it  is  clear  that  the  brevity  must  be  in  direct 
ratio  of  the  intensity  of  the  intended  effect — this,  with  one  pro- 
xy 


258  POE 

viso — that  a  certain  degree  of  duration  is  absolutely  requisite 
for  the  production  of  any  effect  at  all. 

Holding  in  view  these  considerations,  as  well  as  that  degree 
of  excitement  which  I  deemed  not  above  the  popular,  while  not 
below  the  critical  taste,  I  reached  at  once  what  I  conceived  the 
proper  length  for  my  intended  poem — a  length  of  about  one 
hundred  lines.    It  is,  in  fact,  a  hundred  and  eight. 

My  next  thought  concerned  the  choice  of  an  impression,  or 
effect,  to  be  conveyed:  and  here  I  may  as  well  observe  that, 
throughout  the  construction,  I  kept  steadily  in  view  the  design 
of  rendering  the  work  universally  appreciable,  ll  should  be 
carried  too  far  out  of  my  immediate  topic  were  I  to  demonstrate 
a  point  upon  which  I  have  repeatedly  insisted,  and  which,  with 
the  poetical,  stands  not  in  the  slightest  need  of  demonstration — 
the  point,  I  mean,  that  beauty  is  the  sole  legitimate  province  of 
the  poem.^  A  few  words,  however,  in  elucidation  of  my  real 
meaning,  which  some  of  my  friends  have  evinced  a  disposition 
to  misrepresent.  TThat  pleasure  which  is  at  once  the  most  in- 
tense, the  most  elevating,  and  the  most  pure,  is,  I  believe,  found 
in  the  contemplation  of  the  beautiful.)  When,  indeed,  men  speak 
of  beauty,  they  mean,  precisely,  not  a  quality,  as  is  supposed, 
but  an  effect — they  refer,  in  short,  just  to  that  intense  and  pure 
elevation  of  soul — not  of  intellect,  or  of  heart — upon  which  I 
have  commented,  and  which  is  experienced  in  consequence  of 
contemplating  "  the  beautiful.")  Now  I  designate  beauty  as  the 
province  of  the  poem,  merely  because  it  is  an  obvious  rule  of 
art  that  effects  should  be  made  to  spring  from  direct  causes — 
that  objects  should  be  attained  through  means  best  adapted  for 
their  attainment — no  one  as  yet  having  been  weak  enough  to 
deny  that  the  peculiar  elevation  alluded  to  is  most  readily  at- 
tained in  the  poem.  Now,  the  object  truth,  or  the  satisfaction 
of  the  intellect,  and  the  object  passion,  or  the  excitement  of  the 
heart,  are,  although  attainable  to  a  certain  extent  in  poetry,  far 
more  readily  attainable  in  prose.  Truth,  in  fact,  demands  a  pre- 
cision, and  passion  a  homeliness  (the  truly  passionate  will  com- 
prehend me)  which  are  absolutely  antagonistic  to  that  beauty 
which,  I  maintain,  is  the  excitement,  or  pleasurable  elevation,  of 
the  soul.  It  by  no  means  follows  from  anything  here  said  that 
passion,  or  even  truth,  may  not  be  introduced,  and  even  profit- 
ably introduced,  into  a  poem — for  they  may  serve  in  elucidation, 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF   COMPOSITION  259 

or  aid  the  general  effect,  as  do  discords  in  music,  by  contrast — 
but  the  true  artist  will  always  contrive,  first,  to  tone  them  into 
proper  subservience  to  the  predominant  aim,  and,  secondly,  to 
enveil  them,  as  far  as  possible,  in  that  beauty  which  is  the  at- 
mosphere and  the  essence  of  the  poem. 

Regarding,  then,  beauty  as  my  province,  my  next  question 
referred  to  the  tone  of  its  highest  manifestation — and  all  experi- 
ence has  shown  that  this  tone  is  one  of  sadness.  Beauty  of 
whatever  kind,  in  its  supreme  development,  invariably  excites 
the  sensitive  soul  to  tears.  Melancholy  is  thus  the  most  legiti- 
mate of  all  the  poetical  tones. 

The  length,  the  province,  and  the  tone,  being  thus  determh^ed, 
I  betook  myself  to  ordinary  induction,  with  the  view  of  obtain- 
ing some  artistic  piquancy  which  might  serve  me  as  a  key-note 
in  the  construction  of  the  poem — some  pivot  upon  which  the 
whole  structure  might  turn.  In  carefully  thinking  over  all  the 
usual  artistic  effects — or  more  properly  points,  in  the  theatrical 
sense — I  did  not  fail  to  perceive  immediately  that  no  one  had 
been  so  universally  employed  as  that  of  the  refrain.  The  uni- 
versality of  its  employment  sufficed  to  assure  me  of  its  intrinsic 
value,  and  spared  me  the  necessity  of  submitting  it  to  analysis. 
I  considered  it,  however,  with  regard  to  its  susceptibility  of  im- 
provement, and  soon  saw  it  to  be  in  a  primitive  condition.  As 
commonly  used,  the  refrain,  or  burden,  not  only  is  limited  to 
lyric  verse,  but  depends  for  its  impression  upon  the  force  of 
monotone — both  in  sound  and  thought.  The  pleasure  is  de- 
duced solely  from  the  sense  of  identity — of  repetition.  I  re- 
solved to  diversify,  and  so  heighten  the  effect,  by  adhering  in 
general  to  the  monotone  of  sound,  while  I  continually  varied 
that  of  thought :  that  is  to  say,  I  determined  to  produce  contin- 
uously novel  effects,  by  the  variation  of  the  application — of  the 
refrain — the  refrain  itself  remaining,  for  the  most  part,  un- 
varied. 

These  points  being  settled,  I  next  bethought  me  of  the  nature 
of  my  refrain.  Since  its  application  was  to  be  repeatedly  varied, 
it  was  clear  that  the  refrain  itself  must  be  brief,  for  there  would 
have  been  an  insurmountable  difficulty  in  frequent  variations  of 
application  in  any  sentence  of  length.  In  proportion  to  the 
brevity  of  the  sentence  would,  of  course,  be  the  facility  of  the 


26o  POE 

variation.  This  led  me  at  once  to  a  single  word  as  the  best 
refrain. 

The  question  now  arose  as  to  the  character  of  the  word. 
Having  made  up  my  mind  to  a  refrain,  the  division  of  the  poem 
into  stanzas  was,  of  course,  a  corollary,  the  refrain  forming  the 
close  of  each  stanza.  That  such  a  close,  to  have  force,  must  be 
sonorous  and  susceptible  of  protracted  emphasis,  admitted  no 
doubt,  and  these  considerations  inevitably  led  me  to  the  long 
**  o  "  as  the  most  sonorous  vowel  in  connection  with  "  r  "  as  the 
most  producible  consonant. 

The  sound  of  the  refrain  being  thus  determined,  it  became 
necessary  to  select  a  word  embodying  this  sound,  and  at  the 
same  time  in  the  fullest  possible  keeping  with  that  melancholy 
which  I  had  predetermined  as  the  tone  of  the  poem.  In  such 
a  search  it  would  have  been  absolutely  impossible  to  overlook 
the  word  "  Nevermore."  In  fact,  it  was  the  very  first  which 
presented  itself. 

The  next  desideratum  was  a  pretext  for  the  continuous  use  of 
the  one  word  "  nevermore."  In  observing  the  difficulty  which 
I  at  once  found  in  inventing  a  sufficiently  plausible  reason  for 
its  continuous  repetition,  I  did  not  fail  to  perceive  that  this  diffi- 
culty arose  solely  from  the  preassumption  that  the  word  was 
to  be  so  continuously  or  monotonously  spoken  by  a  human  be- 
ing— I  did  not  fail  to  perceive,  in  short,  that  the  difficulty  lay 
in  the  reconciliation  of  this  monotony  with  the  exercise  of  rea- 
son on  the  part  of  the  creature  repeating  the  word.  Here,  then, 
immediately  arose  the  idea  of  a  non-reasoning  creature  capable 
of  speech,  and  very  naturally,  a  parrot,  in  the  first  instance,  sug- 
gested itself  but  was  superseded  forthwith  by  a  raven  as  equally 
capable  of  speech,  and  infinitely  more  in  keeping  with  the  in- 
tended tone. 

I  had  now  gone  so  far  as  the  conception  of  a  raven,  the  bird 
of  ill-omen,  monotonously  repeating  the  one  word  "  Never- 
more "  at  the  conclusion  of  each  stanza  in  the  poem  of  melan- 
choly tone,  and  in  length  about  one  hundred  lines.  Now,  never 
losing  sight  of  the  object — supremeness  or  perfection  at  all 
points,  I  asked  myself — "  Of  all  melancholy  topics  what,  accord- 
ing to  the  universal  understanding  of  mankind,  is  the  most 
melancholy  ?  "  Death,  was  the  obvious  reply.  "  And  when," 
I  said,  "  is  this  most  melancholy  of  topics  most  poetical  ?  " 


THE  PHILOSOPHY   OF   COMPOSITION  261 

From  what  I  have  already  explained  at  some  length  the  answer 
here  also  is  obvious — "  when  it  most  closely  allies  itself  to 
beauty :  the  death,  then,  of  a  beautiful  woman  is  unquestionably 
the  most  poetical  topic  in  the  world,  and  equally  is  it  beyond 
doubt  that  the  lips  best  suited  for  such  topic  are  those  of  a 
bereaved  lover." 

I  had  now  to  combine  the  two  ideas  of  a  lover  lamenting  his 
deceased  mistress  and  a  raven  continuously  repeating  the  word 
"  Nevermore."  I  had  to  combine  these,  bearing  in  mind  my 
design  of  varying  at  every  turn  the  application  of  the  word 
repeated,  but  the  only  intelligible  mode  of  such  combination  is 
that  of  imagining  the  raven  employing  the  word  in  answer  to 
the  queries  of  the  lover.  And  here  it  was  that  I  saw  at  once  the 
opportunity  afforded  for  the  effect  on  which  I  had  been  depend- 
ing, that  is  to  say,  the  effect  of  the  variation  of  application.  I 
saw  that  I  could  make  the  first  query  propounded  by  the  lover — 
the  first  query  to  which  the  raven  should  reply  "  Nevermore  " 
— that  I  could  make  this  first  query  a  commonplace  one,  the 
second  less  so,  the  third  still  less,  and  so  on,  until  at  length  the 
lover,  startled  from  his  original  nonchalance  by  the  melancholy 
character  of  the  word  itself,  by  its  frequent  repetition,  and  by  a 
consideration  of  the  ominous  reputation  of  the  fowl  that  uttered 
it,  is  at  length  excited  to  superstition,  and  wildly  propounds 
queries  of  a  far  different  character — queries  whose  solution  he 
has  passionately  at  heart — propounds  them  half  in  superstition 
and  half  in  that  species  of  despair  which  delights  in  self-tor- 
ture— propounds  them  not  altogether  because  he  believes  in  the 
prophetic  or  demoniac  character  of  the  bird  (which  reason 
assures  him  is  merely  repeating  a  lesson  learned  by  rote),  but 
because  he  experiences  a  frenzied  pleasure  in  so  modelling  his 
questions  as  to  receive  from  the  expected  "  Nevermore  "  the 
most  delicious  because  the  most  intolerable  of  sorrows.  Per- 
ceiving the  opportunity  thus  afforded  me,  or,  more  strictly,  thus 
forced  upon  me  in  the  progress  of  construction,  I  first  estab- 
lished in  my  mind  the  climax  or  concluding  query — that  query 
to  which  "  Nevermore  "  should  be  in  the  last  place  an  answer 
— that  query  in  reply  to  which  this  word  "  Nevermore  "  should 
involve  the  utmost  conceivable  amount  of  sorrow  and  despair. 

Here,  then,  the  poem  may  be  said  to  have  had  its  beginning, 
at  the  end  where  all  works  of  art  should  begin,  for  it  was  here 


262  '  POE 

at  this  point  of  my  preconsiderations  that  I  first  put  pen  to  paper 
in  the  composition  of  the  stanza : — 

**  *  Prophet ! '  said  I,  *  thing  of  evil !  prophet  still  if  bird  or  devil ! 
By  that  Heaven  that  bends  above  us — by  that  God  we  both  adore, 
Tell  this  soul  with  sorrow  laden  if,  within  the  distant  Aidenn, 
It  shall  clasp  a  sainted  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore — 
Clasp  a  rare  and  radiant  maiden  whom  the  angels  name  Lenore.' 
Quoth  the  Raven — *  Nevermore.'  " 

I  composed  this  stanza,  at  this  point,  first,  that,  by  establish- 
ing the  climax,  I  might  the  better  vary  and  graduate,  as  regards 
seriousness  and  importance,  the  preceding  queries  of  the  lover, 
and  secondly,  that  I  might  definitely  settle  the  rhythm,  the 
metre,  and  the  length  and  general  arrangement  of  the  stanza, 
as  well  as  graduate  the  stanzas  which  were  to  precede,  so  that 
none  of  them  might  surpass  this  in  rhythmical  effect.  Had  I 
been  able  in  the  subsequent  composition  to  construct  more 
vigorous  stanzas  I  should  without  scruple  have  purposely  en- 
feebled them  so  as  not  to  interfere  with  the  climacteric  effect. 

And  here  I  may  as  well  say  a  few  words  of  the  versification. 
My  first  object  (as  usual)  was  originality.  The  extent  to  which 
this  has  been  neglected  in  versification  is  one  of  the  most  unac- 
countable things  in  the  world.  Admitting  that  there  is  little 
possibility  of  variety  in  mere  rhythm,  it  is  still  clear  that  the 
possible  varieties  of  metre  and  stanza  are  absolutely  infinite, 
and  yet,  for  centuries,  no  man,  in  verse,  has  ever  done,  or  ever 
seemed  to  think  of  doing,  an  original  thing.  The  fact  is  that 
originality  (unless  in  minds  of  very  unusual  force)  is  by  no 
means  a  matter,  as  some  suppose,  if  impulse  or  intuition.  In 
general,  to  be  found,  it  must  be  elaborately  sought,  and  al- 
though a  positive  merit  of  the  highest  class,  demands  in  its  at- 
tainment less  of  invention  than  negation. 

Of  course,  I  pretend  to  no  originality  in  either  the  rhythm 
or  metre  of  the  "  Raven."  The  former  is  trochaic — the  latter 
is  octametre  acatalectic,  alternating  with  heptametre  catalectic 
repeated  in  the  refrain  of  the  fifth  verse  (  and  terminating  with 
tetrametre  catalectic.  Less  pedantically— the  feet  employed 
throughout  (trochees)  consist  of  a  long  syllable  followed  by  a 
short ;  the  first  line  of  the  stanza  consists  of  eight  of  these  feet, 
the  second  of  seven  and  a  half  (in  effect  two-thirds) ,  the  third  of 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   COMPOSITION  263 

eight,  the  fourth  of  seven  and  a  half,  the  fifth  the  same,  the  sixth 
three  and  a  half.  Now,  each  of  these  lines  taken  individually 
has  been  employed  before,  and  what  originality  the  "  Raven  " 
has,  is  in  their  combination  into  stanza,  nothing  even  remotely 
approaching  this  combination  has  ever  been  attempted.  The 
effect  of  this  originality  of  combination  is  aided  by  other  unusual 
and  some  altogether  novel  effects,  arising  from  an  extension  of 
the  application  of  the  principles  of  rhyme  and  alliteration. 

The  next  point  to  be  considered  was  the  mode  of  bringing 
together  the  lover  and  the  raven — and  the  first  branch  of  this 
consideration  was  the  locale.  For  this  the  most  natural  sugges- 
tion might  seem  to  be  a  forest,  or  the  fields — ^but  it  has  always 
appeared  to  me  that  a  close  circumscription  of  space  is  absolutely 
necessary  to  the  effect  of  insulated  incident — it  has  the  force  of 
a  frame  to  a  picture.  It  has  an  indisputable  moral  power  in 
keeping  concentrated  the  attention,  and,  of  course,  must  not  be 
confounded  with  mere  unity  of  place. 

I  determined,  then,  to  place  the  lover  in  his  chamber — in  a 
chamber  rendered  sacred  to  him  by  memories  of  her  who  had 
frequented  it.  The  room  is  represented  as  richly  furnished — 
t)iis  in  mere  pursuance  of  the  ideas  I  have  already  explained  on 
the  subject  of  beauty,  as  the  sole  true  poetical  thesis. 

The  locale  being  thus  determined,  I  had  now  to  introduce  the 
bird — and  the  thought  of  introducing  him  through  the  window 
was  inevitable.  The  idea  of  making  the  lover  suppose,  in  the 
first  instance,  that  the  flapping  of  the  wings  of  the  bird  against 
the  shutter  is  a  "  tapping  "  at  the  door,  originated  in  a  wish  to 
increase,  by  prolonging  the  reader's  curiosity,  and  in  a  desire 
to  admit  the  incidental  effect  arising  from  the  lover's  throwing 
open  the  door,  finding  all  dark,  and  thence  adopting  the  half- 
fancy  that  it  was  the  spirit  of  his  mistress  that  knocked. 

I  made  the  night  tempestuous,  first  to  account  for  the  raven's 
seeking  admission,  and  secondly,  for  the  effect  of  contrast  with 
the  (physical)  serenity  within  the  chamber. 

I  made  the  bird  alight  on  the  bust  of  Pallas,  also  for  the  effect 
of  contrast  between  the  marble  and  the  plumage — it  being  un- 
derstood that  the  bust  was  absolutely  suggested  by  the  bird — 
the  bust  of  Pallas  being  chosen,  first,  as  most  in  keeping  with  the 
scholarship  of  the  lover,  and,  secondly,  for  the  sonorousness  of 
the  word,  Pallas,  itself. 


264  POE 

About  the  middle  of  the  poem,  also,  I  have  availed  myself  of 
the  force  of  contrast,  with  a  view  of  deepening  the  ultimate  im- 
pression. For  example,  an  air  of  the  fantastic — approaching  as 
nearly  to  the  ludicrous  as  was  admissible — is  given  to  the  raven's 
entrance.    He  comes  in  "  with  many  a  flirt  and  flutter." 

"  Not  the  least  obeisance  made  he — not  a  moment  stopped  or  stayed  he, 
But,  with  mien  of  lord  or  lady,  perched  above  my  chamber  door." 

In  the  two  stanzas  which  follow,  the  design  is  more  obviously 
carried  out : 

"  Then  this  ebon  bird,  beguiling  my  sad  fancy  into  smiling 
By  the  grave  and  stern  decorum  of  the  countenance  it  wore, 
*  Though  thy  crest  be  shorn  and  shaven,  thou,'  I  said,  '  art  sure  no 

craven, 
Ghastly  grim  and  ancient  Raven  wandering  from  the  nightly  shore — 
Tell  me  what  thy  lordly  name  is  on  the  night's  Plutonian  shore? ' 
Quoth  the  Raven,  *  Nevermore.* 

"  Much  I  marvelled  this  ungainly  fowl  to  hear  discourse  so  plainly, 
Though  its  answer  little  meaning — little  relevancy  bore ; 
For  we  cannot  help  agreeing  that  no  living  human  being 
Ever  yet  was  blessed  with  seeing  bird  above  his  chamber  door — 
Bird  or  beast  upon  the  sculptured  bust  above  his  chamber  door, 
With  such  name  as   '  Nevermore.'  " 

The  effect  of  the  denouement  being  thus  provided  for,  I  im- 
mediately drop  the  fantastic  for  a  tone  of  the  most  profound 
seriousness — this  tone  commencing  in  the  stanza  directly  follow- 
ing the  one  last  quoted,  with  the  line — 

"  But  the  Raven,  sitting  lonely  on  that  placid  bust,  spoke  only,'*  etc. 

From  this  epoch  the  lover  no  longer  jests — no  longer  sees 
anything  even  of  the  fantastic  in  the  raven's  demeanor.  He 
speaks  of  him  as  a  "  grim,  ungainly,  ghastly,  gaunt,  and  ominous 
bird  of  yore,"  and  feels  the  '*  fiery  eyes  "  burning  into  his 
"  bosom's  core."  This  revolution  of  thought,  or  fancy,  on  the 
lover's  part,  is  intended  to  induce  a  similar  one  on  the  part  of 
the  reader — to  bring  the  mind  into  a  proper  frame  for  the  de- 
nouement— which  is  now  brought  about  as  rapidly  and  as  di- 
rectly as  possible. 

With  the  denouement  proper — with  the  raven's  reply,  "Never- 
more," to  the  lover's  final  demand  if  he  shall  meet  his  mistress 


THE   PHILOSOPHY   OF   COMPOSITION  265 

in  another  world — the  poem,  in  its  obvious  phase,  that  of  a 
simple  narrative,  may  be  said  to  have  its  completion.  So  far, 
everything  is  within  the  limits  of  the  accountable — of  the  real. 
A  raven,  having  learned  by  rote  the  single  word  "  Nevermore," 
and  having  escaped  from  the  custody  of  its  owner,  is  driven 
at  midnight,  through  the  violence  of  a  storm,  to  seek  admission 
at  a  window  from  which  a  light  still  gleams — the  chamber-win- 
dow of  a  student,  occupied  half  in  poring  over  a  volume,  half  in 
dreaming  of  a  beloved  mistress  deceased.  The  casement  being 
thrown  open  at  the  fluttering  of  the  bird's  wings,  the  bird  itself 
perches  on  the  most  convenient  seat  out  of  the  immediate  reach 
of  the  student,  who,  amused  by  the  incident  and  the  oddity  of 
the  visitor's  demeanor,  demands  of  it,  in  jest  and  without  look- 
ing for  a  reply,  its  name.  The  raven  addressed,  answers  with  its 
customary  word, ''  Nevermore  " — a  word  which  finds  immediate 
echo  in  the  melancholy  heart  of  the  student,  who,  giving  utter- 
ance aloud  to  certain  thoughts  suggested  by  the  occasion,  is 
again  startled  by  the  fowl's  repetition  of  ''  Nevermore."  The 
student  now  guesses  the  state  of  the  case,  but  is  impelled,  as  I 
have  before  explained,  by  the  human  thirst  for  self-torture,  and 
in  part  by  superstition,  to  propound  such  queries  to  the  bird  as 
will  bring  him,  the  lover,  the  most  of  the  luxury  of  sorrow, 
through  the  anticipated  answer  "  Nevermore."  With  the  indul- 
gence, to  the  extreme,  of  this  self-torture,  the  narration,  in  what 
I  have  termed  its  first  or  obvious  phase,  has  a  natural  termina- 
tion, and  so  far  there  has  been  no  overstepping  of  the  limits  of 
the  real. 

But  in  subjects  so  handled,  however  skilfully,  or  with  how- 
ever vivid  an  array  of  incident,  there  is  always  a  certain  hardness 
or  nakedness  which  repels  the  artistical  eye.  Two  things  are 
invariably  required — first,  some  amount  of  complexity,  or  more 
properly,  adaptation;  and,  secondly,  some  amount  of  sugges- 
tiveness — some  under-current,  however  indefinite,  of  meaning. 
It  is  this  latter,  in  especial,  which  imparts  to  a  work  of  art  so 
much  of  that  richness  (to  borrow  from  colloquy  a  forcible  term) 
which  we  are  too  fond  of  confounding  with  the  ideal.  It  is  the 
excess  of  the  suggested  meaning — it  is  the  rendering  this  the 
upper  instead  of  the  under-current  of  the  theme — which  turns 
into  prose  (and  that  of  the  very  flattest  kind)  the  so-called 
poetry  of  the  so-called  transcendentalists. 


266  POE 

Holding  these  opinions,  I  added  the  two  concluding  stanzas 
of  the  poem — their  suggestiveness  being  thus  made  to  pervade 
all  the  narrative  which  has  preceded  them.  The  under-current 
of  meaning  is  rendered  first  apparent  in  the  lines : 

"  *  Take  thy  beak  from  out  my  heart,  and  take  thy  form  from  off  my 
door!' 

Quoth  the  Raven,  *  Nevermore !  *  " 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  words  "  from  out  my  heart "  in- 
volve the  first  metaphorical  expression  in  the  poem.  They,  with 
the  answer,  "  Nevermore,"  dispose  the  mind  to  seek  a  moral  in 
all  that  has  been  previously  narrated.  The  reader  begins  now 
to  regard  the  raven  as  emblematical — but  it  is  not  until  the  very 
last  line  of  the  very  last  stanza  that  the  intention  of  making  him 
emblematical  of  mournful  and  never-ending  remembrance  is 
permitted  distinctly  to  be  seen : 

"  And  the  Raven,  never  flitting,  still  is  sitting,  still  is  sitting, 
On  the  pallid  bust  of  Pallas  just  above  my  chamber  door; 
And  his  eyes  have  all  the  seeming  of  a  demon's  that  is  dreaming, 
And  the  lamplight  o'er  him  streaming  throws  his  shadow  on  the  floor; 
And  my  soul  from  out  that  shadow  that  lies  floating  on  the  floor 
Shall  be  lifted — nevermore." 


THE    PROFESSOR'S    PAPER 


BY 


OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES 


OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 
1809 — 1894 

Born  at  Cambridge,  Massachusetts,  in  1809,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
received  his  early  education  in  the  private  schools  of  that  classic  town. 
At  the  age  of  fifteen  he  was  sent  to  Phillips  Academy,  Andover,  and 
then  to  Harvard  College,  where  he  graduated  in  1829.  He  was  the  poet 
of  his  class,  and  wrote  frequently  for  social  events  and  public  occasions. 
This  habit  became  a  second  nature  to  him  through  life,  and  is  respon- 
sible, if  we  may  believe  a  statistical  biographer,  for  nearly  one-half  of 
all  his  poems.  In  1831  his  spirited  lyric  "  Old  Ironsides "  laid  the 
foundation  of  a  national  reputation.  In  1836  Holmes  received  his  de- 
gree of  doctor  of  medicine,  and  the  same  year  he  published  his  first 
volume  of  poems,  containing  among  others  "  The  Last  Leaf,"  one  of 
the  best  from  his  pen.  Two  years  later  he  published  his  Boylston  prize 
essays  on  medical  subjects,  and  was  chosen  professor  of  anatomy  and 
physiology  in  Dartmouth  College.  In  1847  he  was  called  to  fill  a  sim- 
ilar position  in  Harvard  College,  which  he  held  with  distinction  for 
thirty-five  years. 

In  1857  a  new  literary  magazine  was  started  in  Boston  which  Dr. 
Holmes  named  the  "Atlantic  Monthly."  James  Russell  Lowell  accepted 
the  position  of  editor  only  on  the  condition  "  that  Dr.  Holmes  should  be 
the  first  contributor  to  be  engaged."  Under  such  circumstances  began 
the  series  of  papers  entitled  "  The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table." 
This  work  was  immediately  recognized  as  one  of  the  most  notable  that 
had  yet  appeared  in  American  literature.  The  author's  plan,  peculiar  to 
himself,  enabled  him  to  write  with  greater  ease  and  discursiveness  than 
would  be  permissible  in  the  formal  essay.  He  could,  moreover,  add 
greater  variety,  humor,  and  human  interest  by  means  of  the  dramatic 
setting  employed.  So  great  was  its  success  that  "  The  Autocrat  "  was 
followed  at  varying  intervals  by  other  works  written  in  the  same  style : 
"The  Professor  at  the  Breakfast  Table"  (1859),  "The  Poet  at  the 
Breakfast  Table  "  (1872),  and  "  Over  the  Tea-Cups  "  (1890).  In  these 
charming  productions  Dr.  Holmes  introduced  some  of  his  finest  poems, 
notably  "  The  Deacon's  Masterpiece,"  and  "  The  Chambered  Nautilus," 
in  which  he  strikes  the  highest  poetic  note  he  ever  reached.  Here  also  we 
find  interspersed  occasional  masterpieces  in  prose,  such  as  "  The  Pro- 
fessor's Paper,"  in  which  all  of  his  powers  come  into  play,  as  it  were, 
in  miniature,  and  still  at  their  very  best.  In  addition  to  these  brilliant 
papers,  on  which,  together  with  his  poems,  his  literary  reputation  chiefly 
rests.  Dr.  Holmes  wrote  three  psychological  novels,  of  which  "  Elsie 
Venner  "  is  the  best.  During  his  later  years  he  wrote  biographies  of 
Motley  and  Emerson,  numerous  medical  essays,  and  added  occasionally 
to  successive  new  editions  of  his  poems.  In  1887  he  undertook  a  brief 
journey  to  England,  where  he  was  received  with  great  honor.  Dr. 
Holmes  was  the  last  to  leave  us  of  all  the  greater  New  England  writers, 
his  death  occurring  in  1894,  at  the  age  of  eighty-five. 

While  not  so  profound  as  some  of  his  contemporaries,  the  works  of 
Holmes  abounds  in  geniality  and  wit  that  are  inimitable.  He  was  one 
of  the  most  versatile  of  men,  achieving  success  as  a  physician,  lecturer, 
novelist,  poet,  and  essayist,  and  in  the  last-mentioned  capacity  his  work 
has  an  individuality  and  charm  surpassed  only  by  Montaigne  and  Addi- 
son. His  prose  style  is  clear,  sparkling  with  wit,  -abounding  in  clever 
anecdotes,  sometimes  discursive,  yet  never  losing  sight  of  the  main  pur- 
pose. The  prose  of  Holmes  is  always  fascinating,  and  truly  represen- 
tative of  the  genial  "  Autocrat  "  himself. 

268 


THE  PROFESSOR'S   PAPER* 

MY  friend,  the  Professor,  began  talking  with  me  one  day 
in  a  dreary  sort  of  way.^  I  couldn't  get  at  the  diffi- 
culty for  a  good  while,  but  at  last  it  turned  out  that 
somebody  had  been  calling  him  an  old  man.  He  didn't  mind 
his  students  calling  him  the  old  man,  he  said.  That  was  a 
technical  expression,  and  he  thought  that  he  remembered  hear- 
ing it  applied  to  himself  when  he  was  about  twenty-five.  It 
may  be  considered  as  a  familiar  and  sometimes  endearing  appel- 
lation. An  Irishwoman  calls  her  husband  "  the  old  man,"  and 
he  returns  the  caressing  expression  by  speaking  of  her  as  "  the 
old  woman."  But  now,  said  he,  just  suppose  a  case  like  one  of 
these.  A  young  stranger  is  overheard  talking  of  you  as  a  very 
nice  old  gentleman.  A  friendly  and  genial  critic  speaks  of  your 
green  old  age  as  illustrating  the  truth  of  some  axiom  you  had 
uttered  with  reference  to  that  period  of  life.  What  /  call  an  old 
man  is  a  person  with  a  smooth,  shining  crown  and  a  fringe  of 
scattered  white  hairs,  seen  in  the  streets  on  sunshiny  days, 
stooping  as  he  walks,  bearing  a  cane,  moving  cautiously  and 
slowly ;  telling  old  stories,  smiling  at  present  follies,  living  in 
a  narrow  world  of  dry  habits ;  one  that  remains  waking  when 
others  have  dropped  asleep,  and  keeps  a  little  night-lamp-flame 
of  life  burning  year  after  year,  if  the  lamp  is  not  upset,  and 
there  is  only  a  careful  hand  held  round  it  to  prevent  the  puffs 
of  wind  from  blowing  the  flame  out.  That's  what  I  call  an  old 
man. 

Now,  said  the  Professor,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  I 

'  This  particular  record  is  noteworthy  granted,  will  be  contained  in  the  periodical 

principally  for  containing  a  paper  by  my  where  this  is  found,  unless  it  differ  from  all 

friend,  the  Professor,  with  a  poem  or  two  other  publications  of  the  kind.     Perhaps,  if 

annexed  or  intercalated.    I  would  suggest  such   young  people  will   lay  the  number 

to  young  persons  that  they  should   pass  aside,  and  take  it  up  ten  years,  or  a  little 

over  it  for  the  present,  and  read,  instead  of  more,  from  the  present  time,  they  may  find 

it,  that  story  about  the  young  man  who  something  in  it  for  their  advantage.    They 

was  in  love  with  the  young  lady,  and  in  can't  possibly  understand  it  all  now. 

great    trouble    for    something    like    nine  2  This   is   one  of  the   essays   included 

pages,  but  happily  married  on  the  tenth  in     "  The    Autocrat    of    the    Breakfast 

page  or  thereabouts,  which,  1  take  it  for  Table." 

269 


270 


HOLMES 


have  got  to  that  yet  ?  Why,  bless  you,  I  am  several  years  short 
of  the  time  when — [I  knew  what  was  coming,  and  could  hardly 
keep  from  laughing ;  twenty  years  ago  he  used  to  quote  it  as  one 
of  those  absurd  speeches  men  of  genius  will  make,  and  now  he 
is  going  to  argue  from  it] — several  years  short  of  the  time  when 
Balzac  says  that  men  are — most — you  know — dangerous  to — 
the  hearts  of — in  short,  most  to  be  dreaded  by  duennas  that  have 
charge  of  susceptible  females.  What  age  is  that?  said  I,  sta- 
tistically. Fifty-two  years,  answered  the  Professor.  Balzac 
ought  to  know,  said  I,  if  it  is  true  that  Goethe  said  of  him  that 
each  of  his  stories  must  have  been  dug  out  of  a  woman's  heart. 
But  fifty-two  is  a  high  figure. 

Stand  in  the  light  of  the  window.  Professor,  said  I.  The  Pro- 
fessor took  up  the  desired  position.  You  have  white  hairs,  I 
said.  Had  'em  any  time  these  twenty  years,  said  the  Professor. 
And  the  crow's-foot,  pesanserinus,  rather.  The  Professor 
smiled,  as  I  wanted  him  to,  and  the  folds  radiated  like  the  ridges 
of  a  half-opened  fan,  from  the  outer  corner  of  the  eyes  to  the 
temples.  And  the  calipers,  said  I.  What  are  the  calipers?  he 
asked,  curiously.  Why,  the  parenthesis,  said  I.  Parenthesis? 
said  the  Professor ;  what's  that  ?  Why,  look  in  the  glass  when 
you  are  disposed  to  laugh,  and  see  if  your  mouth  isn't  framed 
in  a  couple  of  crescent  lines — so,  my  boy  ().  It's  all  nonsense, 
said  the  Professor;  just  look  at  my  biceps; — and  he  began 
pulling  off  his  coat  to  show  me  his  arm.  Be  careful,  said  I; 
you  can't  bear  exposure  to  the  air,  at  your  time  of  life,  as  you 
could  once.  I  will  box  with  you,  said  the  Professor,  row  with 
you,  walk  with  you,  ride  with  you,  swim  with  you,  or  sit  at  table 
with  you,  for  fifty  dollars  a  side.  Pluck  survives  stamina,  I 
answered. 

The  Professor  went  off  a  little  out  of  humor.  A  few  weeks 
afterwards  he  came  in,  looking  very  good-natured,  and  brought 
me  a  paper,  which  I  have  here,  and  from  which  I  shall  read  you 
some  portions,  if  you  don't  object.  He  had  been  thinking  the 
matter  over,  he  said — had  read  Cicero  "  De  Senectute,"  and 
made  up  his  mind  to  meet  old  age  half-way.  These  were  some 
of  his  reflections  that  he  had  written  down ;  so  here  you  have 


THE   PROFESSOR'S   PAPER  271 


THE  PROFESSOR'S   PAPER 

There  is  no  doubt  when  old  age  begins.  The  human  body 
is  a  furnace  which  keeps  in  blast  three-score  years  and  ten, 
more  or  less.  It  burns  about  three  hundred  pounds  of  carbon 
a  year  (besides  other  fuel),  when  in  fair  working  order,  accord- 
ing to  a  great  chemist's  estimate.  When  the  fire  slackens  life 
declines ;  when  it  goes  out,  we  are  dead. 

It  has  been  shown  by  some  noted  French  experimenters  that 
the  amount  of  combustion  increases  up  to  about  the  thirtieth 
year,  remains  stationary  to  about  forty-five,  and  then  dimin- 
ishes. This  last  is  the  point  where  old  age  starts  from.  The 
great  fact  of  physical  life  is  the  perpetual  commerce  with  the  ele- 
ments, and  the  fire  is  the  measure  of  it. 

About  this  time  of  life,  if  food  is  plenty  where  you  live — for 
that,  you  know,  regulates  matrimony — you  may  be  expecting 
to  find  yourself  a  grandfather  some  fine  morning;  a  kind  of 
domestic  felicity  that  gives  one  a  cool  shiver  of  delight  to  think 
of,  as  among  the  not  remotely  possible  events. 

I  don't  mind  much  those  slipshod  lines  Dr.  Johnson  wrote  to 
Thrale,  telling  her  about  life's  declining  from  thirty-five;  the 
furnace  is  in  full  blast  for  ten  years  longer,  as  I  have  said.  The 
Romans  came  very  near  the  mark;  their  age  of  enlistment 
reached  from  seventeen  to  forty-six  years. 

What  is  the  use  of  fighting  against  the  seasons,  or  the  tides, 
or  the  movements  of  the  planetary  bodies,  or  this  ebb  in  the  wave 
of  life  that  flows  through  us  ?  We  are  old  fellows  from  the  mo- 
ment the  fire  begins  to  go  out.  Let  us  always  behave  like  gen- 
tlemen when  we  are  introduced  to  new  acquaintances. 


Incipit  Allegoria  Senectutis 

Old  Age,  this  is  Mr.  Professor;  Mr.  Professor,  this  is  Old 
Age. 

Old  Age:  Mr.  Professor,  I  hope  to  see  you  well.  I  have 
known  you  for  some  time,  though  I  think  you  did  not  know  me. 
Shall  we  walk  down  the  street  together? 

Professor  (drawing  back  a  little) :  We  can  talk  more  quietly, 
perhaps,  in  my  study.    Will  you  tell  me  how  it  is  you  seem  to 


272  HOLMES 

be  acquainted  with  everybody  you  are  introduced  to,  though  he 
evidently  considers  you  an  entire  stranger  ? 

Old  Age:  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  force  myself  upon  a  per- 
son's recognition  until  I  have  known  him  at  least  five  years. 

Professor:  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  have  known  me  so 
long  as  that  ? 

Old  Age:  I  do.  I  left  my  card  on  you  longer  ago  than  that, 
but  I  am  afraid  you  never  read  it ;  yet  I  see  you  have  it  with 
you. 

Professor:  Where? 

Old  Age:  There,  between  your  eyebrows — three  straight 
lines  running  up  and  down;  all  the  probate  courts  know  that 
token — "  Old  Age,  his  mark."  Put  your  forefinger  on  the  in- 
ner end  of  one  eyebrow,  and  your  middle  finger  on  the  inner 
end  of  the  other  eyebrow ;  now  separate  the  fingers,  and  you 
will  smooth  out  my  sign-manual;  that's  the  way  you  used  to 
look  before  I  left  my  card  on  you. 

Professor:  What  message  do  people  generally  send  back  when 
you  first  call  on  them  ? 

Old  Age:  Not  at  home.  Then  I  leave  a  card  and  go.  Next 
year  I  call ;  get  the  same  answer ;  leave  another  card.  So  for 
five  or  six — sometimes  ten  years  or  more.  At  last,  if  they  don't 
let  me  in,  I  break  in  through  the  front  door  or  the  windows. 

We  talked  together  in  this  way  some  time.  Then  Old  Age 
said  again:  Come,  let  us  walk  down  the  street  together — and 
offered  me  a  cane,  an  eyeglass,  a  tippet,  and  a  pair  of  over-shoes. 
No,  much  obliged  to  you,  said  I.  I  don't  want  those  things,  and 
I  had  a  little  rather  talk  with  you  here,  privately,  in  my  study. 
So  I  dressed  myself  up  in  a  jaunty  way  and  walked  out  alone 
— got  a  fall,  caught  a  cold,  was  laid  up  with  a  lumbago,  and  had 
time  to  think  over  this  whole  matter. 


Explicit  Allegoria  Senectutis 

We  have  settled  when  old  age  begins.  Like  all  nature's  proc- 
esses, it  is  gentle  and  gradual  in  its  approaches,  strewed  with 
illusions,  and  all  its  little  griefs  soothed  by  natural  sedatives. 
But  the  iron  hand  is  not  less  irresistible  because  it  wears  the 
velvet  glove.  The  button-wood  throws  off  its  bark  in  large 
flakes,  which  one  may  find  lying  at  its  foot,  pushed  out,  and  at 


THE   PROFESSOR'S   PAPER  273 

last  pushed  off,  by  that  tranquil  movement  from  beneath,  which 
is  too  slow  to  be  seen,  but  too  powerful  to  be  arrested.  One 
finds  them  always,  but  one  rarely  sees  them  fall.  So  it  is  our 
youth  drops  from  us — scales  off,  sapless  and  lifeless,  and  lays 
bare  the  tender  and  immature  fresh  growth  of  old  age.  Looked 
at  collectively,  the  changes  of  old  age  appear  as  a  series  of  per- 
sonal insults  and  indignities,  terminating  at  last  in  death,  which 
Sir  Thomas  Browne  has  called  "  the  very  disgrace  and  ignominy 
of  our  natures." 

My  lady's  cheek  can  boast  no  more 
The  cranberry  white  and  pink  it  wore; 
And  where  her  shining  locks  divide. 
The  parting  line  is  all  too  wide 

No,  no — this  will  never  do.  Talk  about  men,  if  you  will,  but 
spare  the  poor  women. 

We  have  a  brief  description  of  seven  stages  of  life  by  a  re- 
markably good  observer.  It  is  very  presumptuous  to  attempt 
to  add  to  it,  yet  I  have  been  struck  with  the  fact  that  life  admits 
of  a  natural  analysis  into  no  less  than  fifteen  distinct  periods. 
Taking  the  five  primary  divisions,  infancy,  childhood,  youth, 
manhood,  old  age,  each  of  these  has  its  own  three  periods  of  im- 
maturity, complete  development,  and  decline.  I  recognize  an 
old  baby  at  once — with  its  "  pipe  and  mug  "  (a  stick  of  candy 
and  a  porringer) — so  does  everybody;  and  an  old  child  shed- 
ding its  milk-teeth  is  only  a  little  prototype  of  the  old  man 
shedding  his  permanent  ones.  Fifty  or  thereabouts  is  only  the 
childhood,  as  it  were,  of  old  age ;  the  graybeard  youngster  must 
be  weaned  from  his  late  suppers  now.  So  you  will  see  that  you 
have  to  make  fifteen  stages  at  any  rate,  and  that  it  would  not 
be  hard  to  make  twenty-five;  five  primary,  each  with  five 
secondary  divisions. 

The  infancy  and  childhood  of  commencing  old  age  have  the 
same  ingenuous  simplicity  and  delightful  unconsciousness  about 
them  that  the  first  stage  of  the  earlier  periods  of  life  shows. 
The  great  delusion  of  mankind  is  in  supposing  that  to  be  indi- 
vidual and  exceptional  which  is  universal  and  according  to  law. 
A  person  is  always  startled  when  he  hears  himself  seriously 
called  an  old  man  for  the  first  time. 

Nature  gets  us  out  of  youth  into  manhood,  as  sailors  are  hur- 
z8 


274 


HOLMES 


ried  on  board  of  vessels — in  a  state  of  intoxication.  We  are 
hustled  into  maturity  reeling  with  our  passions  and  imagina- 
tions, and  we  have  drifted  far  away  from  port  before  we  awake 
out  of  our  illusions.  But  to  carry  us  out  of  maturity  into  old 
age,  without  our  knowing  where  we  are  going,  she  drugs  us  with 
strong  opiates,  and  so  we  stagger  along  with  wide  open  eyes 
that  see  nothing  until  snow  enough  has  fallen  on  our  heads  to 
rouse  our  comatose  brains  out  of  their  stupid  trances. 

There  is  one  mark  of  age  that  strikes  me  more  than  any  of 
the  physical  ones ;  I  mean  the  formation  of  habits.  An  old  man 
who  shrinks  into  himself  falls  into  ways  that  become  as  positive 
and  as  much  beyond  the  reach  of  outside  influences  as  if  they 
were  governed  by  clock-work.  The  animal  functions,  as  the 
physiologists  call  them,  in  distinction  from  the  organic,  tend, 
in  the  process  of  deterioration  to  which  age  and  neglect  united 
gradually  lead  them,  to  assume  the  periodical  or  rhythmical 
type  of  movement.  Every  man's  heart  (this  organ  belongs,  you 
know,  to  the  organic  system)  has  a  regular  mode  of  action ;  but 
I  know  a  great  many  men  whose  brains,  and  all  their  voluntary 
existence  flowing  from  their  brains,  have  a  systole  and  diastole 
as  regular  as  that  of  the  heart  itself.  Habit  is  the  approximation 
of  the  animal  system  to  the  organic.  It  is  a  confession  of  failure 
in  the  highest  function  of  being,  which  involves  a  perpetual 
self-determination,  in  full  view  of  all  existing  circumstances. 
But  habit,  you  see,  is  an  action  in  present  circumstances  from 
past  motives.  It  is  substituting  a  vis  a  tergo  for  the  evolution 
of  living  force. 

When  a  man,  instead  of  burning  up  three  hundred  pounds 
of  carbon  a  year,  has  got  down  to  two  hundred  and  fifty,  it  is 
plain  enough  he  must  economize  force  somewhere.  Now  habit 
is  a  labor-saving  invention  which  enables  a  man  to  get  along 
with  less  fuel — that  is  all ;  for  fuel  is  force,  you  know,  just  as 
much  in  the  page  I  am  writing  for  you  as  in  the  locomotive  or 
the  legs  that  carry  it  to  you.  Carbon  is  the  same  thing,  whether 
you  call  it  wood,  or  coal,  or  bread  and  cheese.  A  reverend  gen- 
tleman demurred  to  this  statement,  as  if,  because  combustion 
is  asserted  to  be  the  sine  qua  non  of  thought,  therefore  thought 
is  alleged  to  be  a  purely  chemical  process.  Facts  of  chemistry 
are  one  thing,  I  told  him,  and  facts  of  consciousness  another. 
It  can  be  proved  to  him,  by  a  very  simple  analysis  of  some  of 


THE   PROFESSOR'S  PAPER  275 

his  spare  elements,  that  every  Sunday,  when  he  does  his  duty 
faithfully,  he  uses  up  more  phosphorus  out  of  his  brain  and 
nerves  than  on  ordinary  days.  But  then  he  had  his  choice 
whether  to  do  his  duty,  or  to  neglect  it,  and  save  his  phosphorus 
and  other  combustibles. 

It  follows  from  all  this  that  the  formation  of  habits  ought 
naturally  to  be,  as  it  is,  the  special  characteristic  of  age.  As  for 
the  muscular  powers,  they  pass  their  maximum  long  before  the 
time  when  the  true  decline  of  life  begins,  if  we  may  judge  by 
the  experience  of  the  ring.  A  man  is  "  stale,"  I  think,  in  their 
language,  soon  after  thirty — often,  no  doubt,  much  earlier,  as 
gentlemen  of  the  pugilistic  profession  are  exceedingly  apt  to 
keep  their  vital  fire  burning  with  the  blower  up. 

So  far  without  Tully.  But  in  the  mean  time  I  have  been  read- 
ing the  treatise  *'  De  Senectute."  It  is  not  long,  but  a  leisurely 
performance.  The  old  gentleman  was  sixty-three  years  of  age 
when  he  addressed  it  to  his  friend  T.  Pomponius  Atticus,  Esq., 
a  person  of  distinction,  some  two  or  three  years  older.  We  read 
it  when  we  are  schoolboys,  forget  all  about  it  for  thirty  years, 
and  then  take  it  up  again  by  a  natural  instinct — provided  always 
that  we  read  Latin  as  we  drink  water,  without  stopping  to  taste 
it,  as  all  of  us  who  ever  learned  it  at  school  or  college  ought 
to  do. 

Cato  is  the  chief  speaker  in  the  dialogue.  A  good  deal  of  it  is 
what  would  be  called  in  vulgar  phrase  "  slow."  It  unpacks 
and  unfolds  incidental  illustrations  which  a  modern  writer 
would  look  at  the  back  of,  and  toss  each  to  its  pigeon-hole.  I 
think  ancient  classics  and  ancient  people  are  alike  in  the  tendency 
to  this  kind  of  expansion. 

An  old  doctor  came  to  me  once  (this  is  literal  fact)  with  some 
contrivance  or  other  for  people  with  broken  kneepans.  As  the 
patient  would  be  confined  for  a  good  while,  he  might  find  it 
dull  work  to  sit  with  his  hands  in  his  lap.  Reading,  the  in- 
genious inventor  suggested,  would  be  an  agreeable  mode  of 
passing  the  time.  He  mentioned,  in  his  written  account  of  his 
contrivance,  various  works  that  might  amuse  the  weary  hour. 
I  remember  only  three — "  Don  Quixote,"  "  Tom  Jones,"  and 
Watts's  "  On  the  Mind." 

It  is  not  generally  understood  that  Cicero's  essay  was  de- 
livered as  a  lyceum  lecture  {concio  popularis)  at  the  temple  of 


276  HOLMES 

Mercury.  The  journals  {papyri)  of  the  day  ("  Tempora  Quo- 
tidiana,"  "  Tribunas  QuirinaHs,"  '*  Prseco  Romanus,"  and  the 
rest)  gave  abstracts  of  it,  one  of  which  I  have  translated  and 
modernized,  as  being  a  substitute  for  the  analysis  I  intended 
to  make. 

'' IV.  Kal.  Mart.     .     .     . 

*'  The  lecture  at  the  temple  of  Mercury,  last  evening,  was  well 
attended  by  the  elite  of  our  great  city.  Two  hundred  thousand 
sestertia  were  thought  to  have  been  represented  in  the  house. 
The  doors  were  besieged  by  a  mob  of  shabby  fellows  (illotum 
vulgus),  who  were  at  length  quieted  after  two  or  three  had  been 
somewhat  roughly  handled  {gladio  jugulati).  The  speaker  was 
the  well-known  Mark  Tully,  Esq. ;  the  subject,  Old  Age.  Mr. 
T.  has  a  lean  and  scraggy  person,  with  a  very  unpleasant  ex- 
crescence upon  his  nasal  feature,  from  which  his  nickname  of 
chick-pea  (Cicero)  is  said  by  some  to  be  derived.  As  a  lecturer 
is  public  property,  we  may  remark  that  his  outer  garment  (toga) 
was  of  cheap  stuff  and  somewhat  worn,  and  that  his  general 
style  and  appearance  of  dress  and  manner  (habitus,  vestitusque) 
were  somewhat  provincial. 

"  The  lecture  consisted  of  an  imaginary  dialogue  between 
Cato  and  Laelius.  We  found  the  first  portion  rather  heavy,  and 
retired  a  few  moments  for  refreshments  (pocula  qucedam  vini). 
All  want  to  reach  old  age,  says  Cato,  and  grumble  when  they 
get  it ;  therefore  they  are  donkeys.  The  lecturer  will  allow  us 
to  say  that  he  is  the  donkey ;  we  know  we  shall  grumble  at  old 
age,  but  we  want  to  live  through  youth  and  manhood,  in  spite  of 
the  troubles  we  shall  groan  over.  There  was  considerable  pros- 
ing as  to  what  old  age  can  do  and  can't.  True,  but  not  new. 
Certainly,  old  folks  can't  jump — break  the  necks  of  their  thigh- 
bones (f-emorum  cervices)  if  they  do — can't  crack  nuts  with 
their  teeth ;  can't  climb  a  greased  pole  (malum  inunctum  scan- 
dere  non  possunt)  ;  but  they  can  tell  old  stories  and  give  you 
good  advice ;  if  they  know  what  you  have  made  up  your  mind 
to  do  when  you  ask  them.  All  this  is  well  enough,  but  won't 
set  the  Tiber  on  fire  (Tiberim  accendere  nequaquam  potest). 

"  There  were  some  clever  things  enough  (dicta  haud  inepta), 
a  few  of  which  are  worth  reporting.  Old  people  are  accused  of 
being  forgetful;   but  they  never  forget  where  they  have  put 


THE   PROFESSOR'S   PAPER 


277 


their  money.  Nobody  is  so  old  he  doesn't  think  he  can  live  a 
year.  The  lecturer  quoted  an  ancient  maxim,  *  Grow  old  early, 
if  you  would  be  old  long/  but  disputed  it.  Authority,  he 
thought,  was  the  chief  privilege  of  age.  It  is  not  great  to  have 
money,  but  fine  to  govern  those  that  have  it.  Old  age  begins 
at  forty-six  years,  according  to  the  common  opinion.  It  is  not 
every  kind  of  old  age  or  of  wine  that  grows  sour  with  time. 
Some  excellent  remarks  were  made  on  immortality,  but  mainly 
borrowed  from  and  credited  to  Plato.  Several  pleasing  anec- 
dotes were  told — Old  Milo,  champion  of  the  heavy-weights  in 
his  day,  looked  at  his  arms  and  whimpered,  *  They  are  dead.' 
Not  so  dead  as  you,  you  old  fool,  says  Cato;  you  never  were 
good  for  anything  but  for  your  shoulders  and  flanks.  Pisistra- 
tus  asked  Solon  what  made  him  dare  to  be  so  obstinate.  Old 
age,  said  Solon. 

"  The  lecture  was  on  the  whole  acceptable,  and  a  credit  to 
our  culture  and  civilization.  The  reporter  goes  on  to  state  that 
there  will  be  no  lecture  next  week,  on  account  of  the  expected 
combat  between  the  bear  and  the  barbarian.  Betting  (sponsio) 
two  to  one  (duo  ad  unum)  on  the  bear." 

After  all,  the  most  encouraging  things  I  find  in  the  treatise, 
"  De  Senectute,"  are  the  stories  of  men  who  have  found  new 
occupations  when  growing  old,  or  kept  up  their  common  pur- 
suits in  the  extreme  period  of  life.  Cato  learned  Greek  when 
he  was  old,  and  speaks  of  wishing  to  learn  the  fiddle,  or  some 
such  instrument  (fidihus),  after  the  example  of  Socrates.  Solon 
learned  something  new,  every  day,  in  his  old  age,  as  he  gloried 
to  proclaim.  Cyrus  pointed  out  with  pride  and  pleasure  the  trees 
he  had  planted  with  his  own  hand.  [  I  remember  a  pillar  on  the 
Duke  of  Northumberland's  estate  at  Alnwick,  with  an  inscrip- 
tion in  similar  words,  if  not  the  same.  That,  like  other  country 
pleasures,  never  wears  out.  None  is  too  rich,  none  too  poor, 
none  too  young,  none  too  old  to  enjoy  it.]  There  is  a  New 
England  story  I  have  heard  more  to  the  point,  however,  than  any 
of  Cicero's.  A  young  farmer  was  urged  to  set  out  some  apple- 
trees.  No,  said  he,  they  are  too  long  growing,  and  I  don't  want 
to  plant  for  other  people.  The  young  farmer's  father  was 
spoken  to  about  it ;  but  he,  with  better  reason,  alleged  that  ap- 
ple-trees were  slow  and  life  was  fleeting.    At  last  some  one  men- 


2y8  HOLMES 

tioned  it  to  the  old  grandfather  of  the  young  farmer.  He  had 
nothing  else  to  do,  so  he  stuck  in  some  trees.  He  lived  long 
enough  to  drink  barrels  of  cider  made  from  the  apples  that  grew 
on  those  trees. 

As  for  myself,  after  visiting  a  friend  lately — [Do  remember 
all  the  time  that  this  is  the  Professor's  paper] — I  satisfied  my- 
self that  I  had  better  concede  the  fact  that — my  contemporaries 
are  not  so  young  as  they  have  been — and  that — awkward  as  it 
is — science  and  history  agree  in  telling  me  that  I  can  claim  the 
immunities  and  must  own  the  humiliations  of  the  early  stage  of 
senility.  Ah !  but  we  have  all  gone  down  the  hill  together.  The 
dandies  of  my  time  have  split  their  waistbands  and  taken  to  high- 
low  shoes.  The  beauties  of  my  recollections — where  are  they  ? 
They  have  run  the  gantlet  of  the  years  as  well  as  I.  First  the 
years  pelted  them  with  red  roses  till  their  cheeks  were  all  on 
fire.  By  and  by  they  began  throwing  white  roses,  and  that  morn- 
ing flush  passed  away.  As  last  one  of  the  years  threw  a  snow- 
ball, and  after  that  no  year  let  the  poor  girls  pass  without  throw- 
ing snow-balls.  And  then  came  rougher  missiles — ice  and 
stones;  and  from  time  to  time  an' arrow  whistled,  and  down 
went  one  of  the  poor  girls.  So  there  are  but  few  left;  and 
we  don't  call  those  few  girls,  but 

Ah,  me!  here  am  I  groaning  just  as  the  old  Greek  sighed 
At  at  !  and  the  old  Roman  Eheu !  I  have  no  doubt  we  should 
die  of  shame  and  grief  at  the  indignities  offered  us  by  age,  if 
it  were  not  that  we  see  so  many  others  as  badly  or  worse  off  than 
ourselves.  We  always  compare  ourselves  with  our  contem- 
poraries. 

[I  was  interrupted  in  my  reading  just  here.  Before  I  began 
at  the  next  breakfast,  I  read  them  these  verses ;  I  hope  you  will 
like  them,  and  get  a  useful  lesson  from  them.] 

THE  LAST  BLOSSOM 

Though  young  no  more,  we  still  would  dream 

Of  beauty's  dear  deluding  wiles ; 
The  leagues  of  life  to  graybeards  seem 

Shorter  than  boyhood's  lingering  miles. 

Who  knows  a  woman's  wild  caprice? 

It  played  with  Goethe's  silvered  hair, 
And  many  a  Holy  Father*s  "  niece  " 

Has  softly  smoothed  the  papal  chair. 


THE   PROFESSOR'S  PAPER  279 

When  sixty  bids  us  sigh  in  vain 

To  melt  the  heart  of  sweet  sixteen, 
We  think  upon  those  ladies  twain 

Who  loved  so  well  the  tough  old  dean. 

We  see  the  patriarch's  wintry  face, 

The  maid  of  Egypt's  dusky  glow, 
And  dream  that  youth  and  age  embrace. 

As  April  violets  fill  with  snow. 

Tranced  in  her  lord's  Olympian  smile 

His  lotus-loving  Memphian  lies — 
The  musky  daughter  of  the  Nile 

With  plaited  hair  and  almond  eyes. 

Might  we  but  share  one  wild  caress 

Ere  life's  autumnal  blossoms  fall, 
And  earth's  brown,  clinging  lips  impress 

The  long  cold  kiss  that  waits  us  all ! 

My  bosom  heaves,  remembering  yet 

The  morning  of  that  blissful  day 
When  Rose,  the  flower  of  spring,  I  met. 

And  gave  my  raptured  soul  away. 

Flung  from  her  eyes  of  purest  blue, 

A  lasso,  with  its  leaping  chain 
Light  as  a  loop  of  larkspurs,  flew 

O'er  sense  and  spirit,  heart  and  brain. 

Thou  com'st  to  cheer  my  waning  age, 

Sweet  vision,  waited  for  so  long ! 
Dove  that  wouldst  seek  the  poet's  cage 

Lured  by  the  magic  breath  of  song! 

She  blushes !    Ah,  reluctant  maid, 

Love's  drapeau  rouge  the  truth  has  told! 
O'er  girlhood's  yielding  barricade 

Floats  the  great  Leveller's  crimson  fold ! 

Come  to  my  arms! — love  heeds  not  years; 

No  frost  the  bud  of  passion  knows. 
Ha !   what  is  this  my  frenzy  hears  ? 

A  voice  behind  me  uttered,  Rose ! 

Sweet  was  her  smile — but  not  for  me : 

Alas,  when  woman  looks  too  kind, 
Just  turn  your  foolish  head  and  see — 

Some  youth  is  walking  close  behind  I 


28o  HOLMES 

As  to  giving  up  because  the  almanac  or  the  family  Bible  says 
that  it  is  about  time  to  do  it,  I  have  no  intention  of  doing  any 
such  thing.  I  grant  you  that  I  burn  less  carbon  than  some 
years  ago.  I  see  people  of  my  standing  really  good  for  nothing, 
decrepit,  effete  la  levre  inferieure  deja  pendante,  with  what  lit- 
tle life  they  have  left  mainly  concentrated  in  their  epigastrium. 
But  as  the  disease  of  old  age  is  epidemic,  endemic,  and  sporadic, 
and  everybody  that  lives  long  enough  is  sure  to  catch  it,  I  am 
going  to  say,  for  the  encouragement  of  such  as  need  it,  how  I 
treat  the  malady  in  my  own  case. 

First.  As  I  feel,  that,  when  I  have  anything  to  do,  there  is 
less  time  for  it  than  when  I  was  younger,  I  find  that  I  give  my 
attention  more  thoroughly,  and  use  my  time  more  economically 
than  ever  before ;  so  that  I  can  learn  anything  twice  as  easily  as 
in  my  earlier  days.  I  am  not,  therefore,  afraid  to  attack  a  new 
study.  I  took  up  a  difficult  language  a  very  few  years  ago  with 
good  success,  and  think  of  mathematics  and  metaphysics  by  and 
by. 

Secondly.  I  have  opened  my  eyes  to  a  good  many  neglecte.d 
privileges  and  pleasures  within  my  reach,  and  requiring  only 
a  little  courage  to  enjoy  them.  You  may  well  suppose  it  pleased 
me  to  find  that  old  Cato  was  thinking  of  learning  to  play  the 
fiddle,  when  I  had  deliberately  taken  it  up  in  my  old  age,  arid 
satisfied  myself  that  I  could  get  much  comfort,  if  not  much 
music,  out  of  it. 

Thirdly.  I  have  found  that  some  of  those  active  exercises, 
which  are  commonly  thought  to  belong  to  young  folks  only,  may 
be  enjoyed  at  a  much  later  period. 

A  young  friend  has  lately  written  an  admirable  article  in  one 
of  the  journals,  entitled  "  Saints  and  their  Bodies."  Approv- 
ing of  his  general  doctrines,  and  grateful  for  his  records  of 
personal  experience,  I  cannot  refuse  to  add  my  own  experi- 
mental confirmation  of  his  eulogy  of  one  particular  form  of  ac- 
tive exercise  and  amusement,  namely,  boating.  For  the  past 
nine  years  I  have  rowed  about,  during  a  good  part  of  the  sum- 
mer, on  fresh  or  salt  water.  My  present  fleet  on  the  river 
Charles  consists  of  three  row-boats,  i.  A  small  flat-bottomed 
skiff  of  the  shape  of  a  flat-iron,  kept  mainly  to  lend  to  boys.  2. 
A  fancy  "  dory  "  for  two  pairs  of  sculls,  in  which  I  sometimes 
go  out  with  my  young  folks.     3.  My  own  particular  water- 


THE   PROFESSOR'S  PAPER  281 

sulky,  a  "  skeleton  "  or  "  shell  "  race-boat,  twenty-two  feet  long, 
with  huge  outriggers,  which  boat  I  pull  with  ten-foot  sculls — 
alone,  of  course,  as  it  holds  but  one,  and  tips  him  out,  if  he 
doesn't  mind  what  he  is  about.  In  this  I  glide  along  the  Back 
Bay,  down  the  stream,  up  the  Charles  to  Cambridge  and  Water- 
town,  up  the  Mystic,  round  the  wharves,  in  the  wake  of  steam- 
boats, which  have  a  swell  after  them  delightful  to  rock  upon; 
I  linger  under  the  bridges — those  "  caterpillar  bridges  "  as  my 
brother  Professor  so  happily  called  them ;  rub  against  the  black 
sides  of  old  wood-schooners ;  cool  down  under  the  overhang- 
ing stern  of  some  tall  Indiaman;  stretch  across  to  the  Navy- 
Yard,  where  the  sentinel  warns  me  off  from  the  Ohio — just  as  if 
I  should  hurt  her  by  lying  in  her  shadow ;  then  strike  out  into 
the  harbor,  where  the  water  gets  clear  and  the  air  smells  of  the 
ocean — till  all  at  once  I  remember,  that,  if  a  west  wind  blows 
up  of  a  sudden,  I  shall  drift  along  past  the  islands,  out  of  sight 
of  the  dear  old  State-house — plate,  tumbler,  knife,  and  fork  all 
waiting  at  home,  but  no  chair  drawn  up  to  the  table — all  the 
dear  people  waiting,  waiting,  waiting,  while  the  boat  is  sliding, 
sliding,  sliding  into  the  great  desert,  where  there  is  no  tree  and 
no  fountain.  As  I  don't  want  my  wreck  to  be  washed  up  on  one 
of  the  beaches  in  company  with  devils'-aprons,  bladder-weeds*, 
dead  horse-shoes,  and  bleached  crab-shells,  I  turn  about  and 
flap  my  long,  narrow  wings  for  home.  When  the  tide  is  run- 
ning out  swiftly  I  have  a  splendid  fight  to  get  through  the 
bridges,  but  always  make  it  a  rule  to  beat — though  I  have  been 
jammed  up  into  pretty  tight  places  at  times,  and  was  caught  once 
between  a  vessel  swinging  round  and  the  pier,  until  our  bones 
(the  boat's  that  is)  cracked  as  if  we  had  been  in  the  jaws  of 
Behemoth.  Then  back  to  my  moorings  at  the  foot  of  the  Com- 
mon, off  with  the. rowing  dress,  dash  under  the  green  translucent 
Wave,  return  to  the  garb  of  civilization,  walk  through  my  Gar- 
den, take  a  look  at  my  elms  on  the  Common,  and,  reaching  my 
habitat,  in  consideration  of  my  advanced  period  of  life,  indulge 
in  the  elysian  abandonment  of  a  huge  recumbent  chair. 

When  I  have  established  a  pair  of  well-pronounced  feather- 
ing-calluses on  my  thumbs,  when  I  am  in  training  so  that  I  can 
do  my  fifteen  miles  at  a  stretch  without  coming  to  grief  in  any 
way,  when  I  can  perform  my  mile  in  eight  minutes  or  a  little 
less,  then  I  feel  as  if  I  had  old  Time's  head  in  chancery,  and 
could  give  it  to  him  at  my  leisure. 


282  HOLMES 

I  do  not  deny  the  attraction  of  walking.  I  have  bored  this 
ancient  city  through  and  through  in  my  daily  travels,  until  I 
know  it  as  an  old  inhabitant  of  a  Cheshire  knows  his  cheese. 
Why,  it  was  I  who,  in  the  course  of  these  rambles,  discovered 
that  remarkable  avenue  called  Myrtle  Street,  stretching  in  one 
long  line  from  east  of  the  Reservoir  to  a  precipitous  and  rudely 
paved  cliff  which  looks  down  on  the  grim  abode  of  science,  and 
beyond  it  to  the  far  hills ;  a  promenade  so  delicious  in  its  repose, 
so  cheerfully  varied  with  glimpses  down  the  northern  slope  into 
busy  Cambridge  Street  with  its  iron  river  of  the  horse  railroad, 
and  wheeled  barges  gliding  back  and  forward  over  it — so  de- 
lightfully closing  at  its  western  extremity  in  sunny  courts  and 
passages  where  I  know  peace,  and  beauty,  and  virtue,  and  serene 
old  age  must  be  perpetual  tenants — so  alluring  to  all  who  desire 
to  take  their  daily  stroll,  in  the  words  of  Dr.  Watts — 

"  Alike  unknowing  and  unknown  " — 

that  nothing  but  a  sense  of  duty  would  have  prompted  me  to  re- 
veal the  secret  of  its  existence.  I  concede,  therefore,  that  walk- 
ing is  an  immeasurably  fine  invention,  of  which  old  age  ought 
constantly  to  avail  itself. 

Saddle-leather  is  in  some  respects  even  preferable  to  sole- 
leather.  The  principal  objection  to  it  is  of  a  financial  charac- 
ter. But  you  may  be  sure  that  Bacon  and  Sydenham  did  not 
recommend  it  for  nothing.  One's  hepar,  or,  in  vulgar  language, 
liver — a  ponderous  organ,  weighing  some  three  or  four  pounds 
— goes  up  and  down  like  the  dasher  of  a  churn  in  the  midst  of 
the  other  vital  arrangements,  at  every  step  of  a  trotting  horse. 
The  brains  also  are  shaken  up  like  coppers  in  a  money-box. 
Riding  is  good,  for  those  that  are  born  with  a  silver-mounted 
bridle  in  their  hand,  and  can  ride  as  much  and  as  often  as  they 
like,  without  thinking  all  the  time  they  hear  that  steady  grinding 
sound  as  the  horse's  jaws  triturate  with  calm  lateral  movement 
the  bank-bills  and  promises  to  pay  upon  which  it  is  notorious 
that  the  profligate  animal  in  question  feeds  day  and  night. 

Instead,  however,  of  considering  these  kinds  of  exercise  in 
this  empirical  way,  I  will  devote  a  brief  space  to  an  examina- 
tion of  them  in  a  more  scientific  form. 

The  pleasure  of  exercise  is  due  first  to  a  purely  physical  im- 
pression, and  secondly  to  a  sense  of  power  in  action.    The  first 


THE   PROFESSOR'S  PAPER  283 

source  of  pleasure  varies  of  course  with  our  condition  and  the 
state  of  the  surrounding  circumstances;  the  second  with  the 
amount  and  kind  of  power,  and  the  extent  and  kind  of  action. 
In  all  forms  of  active  exercise  there  are  three  powers  simul- 
taneously in  action — the  will,  the  muscles,  and  the  intellect. 
Each  of  these  predominates  in  different  kinds  of  exercise.  In 
walking,  the  will  and  muscles  are  so  accustomed  to  work  to- 
gether and  perform  their  task  with  so  little  expenditure  of  force, 
that  the  intellect  is  left  comparatively  free.  The  mental  pleasure 
in  walking,  as  such,  is  in  the  sense  of  power  over  all  our  moving 
machinery.  But  in  riding,  I  have  the  additional  pleasure  of 
governing  another  will,  and  my  muscles  extend  to  the  tips  of 
the  animal's  ears  and  to  his  four  hoofs,  instead  of  stopping  at  my 
hands  and  feet.  Now  in  this  extension  of  my  volition  and  my 
physical  frame  into  another  animal,  my  tyrannical  instincts  and 
my  desire  for  heroic  strength  are  at  once  gratified.  When  the 
horse  ceases  to  have  a  will  of  his  own  and  his  muscles  require 
no  special  attention  on  your  part,  then  you  may  live  on  horse- 
back as  Wesley  did,  and  write  sermons  or  take  naps,  as  you 
like.  But  you  will  observe,  that,  in  riding  on  horseback,  you 
always  have  a  feeling,  that,  after  all,  it  is  not  you  that  do  the 
work,  but  the  animal,  and  this  prevents  the  satisfaction  from 
being  complete. 

Now  let  us  look  at  the  conditions  of  rowing.  I  won't  sup- 
pose you  to  be  disgracing  yourself  in  one  of  those  miserable 
tubs,  tugging  in  which  is  to  rowing  the  true  boat  what  riding 
a  cow  is  to  bestriding  an  Arab.  You  know  the  Esquimau 
kayak  (if  that  is  the  name  of  it) ,  don't  you  ?  Look  at  that  model 
of  one  over  my  door.  Sharp,  rather  ?  On  the  contrary,  "it  is  a 
lubber  to  the  one  you  and  I  must  have ;  a  Dutch  fish-wife  to 
Psyche,  contrasted  with  what  I  will  tell  you  about.  Our  boat, 
then,  is  something  of  the  shape  of  a  pickerel,  as  you  look  down 
upon  his  back,  he  lying  in  the  sunshine  just  where  the  sharp 
edge  of  the  water  cuts  in  among  the  lily-pads.  It  is  a  kind  of  a 
giant  pod,  as  one  may  say — tight  everywhere,  except  in  a  little 
place  in  the  middle,  where  you  sit.  Its  length  is  from  seven  to 
ten  yards,  and  as  it  is  only  from  sixteen  to  thirty  inches  wide 
in  its  widest  part,  you  understand  why  you  want  those  "  out- 
riggers," or  projecting  iron  frames  with  the  rowlocks  in  which 
the  oars  play.  My  rowlocks  are  five  feet  apart ;  double  or  more 
than  double  the  greatest  width  of  the  boat. 


284  HOLMES 

Here  you  are,  then,  afloat  with  a  body  a  rod  and  a  half  long, 
with  arms,  or  wings  as  you  may  choose  to  call  them,  stretching 
more  than  twenty  feet  from  tip  to  tip ;  every  volition  of  yours 
extending  as  perfectly  into  them  as  if  your  spinal  cord  ran 
down  the  centre  strip  of  your  boat,  and  the  nerves  of  your  arms 
tingled  as  far  as  the  broad  blades  of  your  oars — oars  of  spruce, 
balanced,  leathered,  and  ringed  under  your  own  special  direc- 
tion. This,  in  sober  earnest,  is  the  nearest  approach  to  flying 
that  man  has  ever  made  or  perhaps  ever  will  make.  As  the 
hawk  sails  without  flapping  his  pinions,  so  you  drift  with  the  tide 
when  you  will,  in  the  most  luxurious  form  of  locomotion  in- 
dulged to  an  embodied  spirit.  But  if  your  blood  wants  rousing, 
turn  round  that  stake  in  the  river,  which  you  see  a  mile  from 
here;  and  when  you  come  in  in  sixteen  minutes  (if  you  do,  for 
we  are  old  boys,  and  not  champion  scullers,  you  remember)  then 
say  if  you  begin  to  feel  a  little  warmed  up  or  not !  You  can  row 
easily  and  gently  all  day,  and  you  can  row  yourself  blind  and 
black  in  the  face  in  ten  minutes,  just  as  you  like.  It  has  been 
long  agreed  that  there  is  no  way  in  which  a  man  can  accomplish 
so  much  labor  with  his  muscles  as  in  rowing.  It  is  in  the  boat, 
then,  that  man  finds  the  largest  extension  of  his  volitional  and 
muscular  existence ;  and  yet  he  may  tax  both  of  them  so  slightly, 
in  that  most  dehcious  of  exercises,  that  he  shall  mentally  write 
his  sermon,  or  his  poem,  or  recall  the  remarks  he  has  made  in 
company  and  put  them  in  form  for  the  public,  as  well  as  in  his 
easy-chair. 

I  dare  not  publicly  name  the  rare  joys,  the  infinite  delights, 
that  intoxicate  me  on  some  sweet  June  morning,  when  the  river 
and  bay  are  smooth  as  a  sheet  of  beryl-green  silk,  and  I  run 
along  ripping  it  up  with  my  knife-edged  shell  of  a  boat,  the  rent 
closing  after  me  like  those  wounds  of  angels  which  Milton  tells 
of,  but  the  seam  still  shining  for  many  a  long  rood  behind  me. 
To  lie  still  over  the  Flats,  where  the  waters  are  shallow,  and  see 
the  crabs  crawling  and  the  sculpins  gliding  busily  and  silently 
beneath  the  boat,  to  rustle  in  through  the  long  harsh  grass  that 
leads  up  some  tranquil  creek,  to  take  shelter  from  the  sunbeams 
under  one  of  the  thousand-footed  bridges,  and  look  down  its 
interminable  colonnades,  crusted  with  green  and  oozy  growths, 
studded  with  minute  barnacles,  and  belted  with  rings  of  dark 
mussels,  while  overhead  streams  and  thunders  that  other  river 


THE   PROFESSOR'S   PAPER  285 

whose  every  wave  is  a  human  soul  flowing  to  eternity  as  the 
river  below  flows  to  the  ocean ;  lying  there  moored  unseen,  in 
loneliness  so  profound  that  the  columns  of  Tadmor  in  the  desert 
could  not  seem  more  remote  from  life,  the  cool  breeze  on  one's 
forehead,  the  stream  whispering  against  the  half-sunken  pilr 
lars — why  should  I  tell  of  these  things,  that  i  should  live  to  see 
my  beloved  haunts  invaded  and  the  waves  blackened  with  boats 
as  with  a  swarm  of  water-beetles?  What  a  city  of  idiots  we 
must  be  not  to  have  covered  the  glorious  bay  with  gondolas  and 
wherries,  as  we  have  just  learned  to  cover  the  ice  in  winter 
with  skaters! 

I  am  satisfied  that  such  a  set  of  black-coated,  stiff-jointed, 
soft-muscled,  paste-complexioned  youth  as  we  can  boast  in  our 
Atlantic  cities  never  before  sprang  from  loins  of  Anglo-Saxon 
lineage.  Of  the  females  that  are  the  mates  of  these  males  I  do 
not  here  speak.  I  preached  my  sermon  from  the  lay-pulpit  on 
this  matter  a  good  while  ago.  Of  course,  if  you  heard  it,  you 
know  my  belief  is  that  the  total  climatic  influences  here  are 
getting  up  a  number  of  new  patterns  of  humanity,  some  of  which 
are  not  an  improvement  on  the  old  model.  Clipper-built,  sharp 
in  the  bows,  long  in  the  spars,  slender  to  look  at,  and  fast  to  go, 
the  ship,  which  is  the  great  organ  of  our  national  life  of  rela- 
tion, is  but  a  reproduction  of  the  typical  form  which  the  elements 
impress  upon  its  builder.  All  this  we  cannot  help ;  but  we  can 
make  the  best  of  these  influences,  such  as  they  are.  We  have  a 
few  good  boatmen,  no  good  horsemen  that  I  hear  of,  nothing 
remarkable,  I  believe,  in  cricketing,  and  as  for  any  great  athletic 
feat  performed  by  a  gentleman  in  these  latitudes,  society  would 
drop  a  man  who  should  run  round  the  Common  in  five  minutes. 
Some  of  our  amateur  fencers,  single-stick  players,  and  boxers, 
we  have  no  reason  to  be  ashamed  of.  Boxing  is.rough  play,  biit 
not  too  rough  for  a  hearty  young  fellow.  Anything  is  better 
than  this  white-blooded  degeneration  to  which  we  all  tend. 

I  dropped  into  a  gentlemen's  sparring  exhibition  only  last 
evening.  It  did  my  heart  good  to  see  that  there  were  a  few 
young  and  youngish  youths  left  who  could  take  care  of  their 
own  heads  in  case  of  emergency.  It  is  a  fine  sight,  that  of  a 
gentleman  resolving  himself  into  the  primitive  constituents  of 
his  humanity.  Here  is  a  delicate  young  man  now,  with  an  intel- 
lectual countenance,  a  slight  figure,  a  sub-pallid  complexion,  a 


286  HOLMES 

most  unassuming  deportment,  a  mild  adolescent  in  fact,  that  any 
Hiram  or  Jonathan  from  between  the  plough-tails  would  of 
course  expect  to  handle  with  perfect  ease.  Oh,  he  is  taking  off 
his  gold-bowed  spectacles !  Ah,  he  is  divesting  himself  of  his 
cravat !  Why,  he  is  stripping  oif  his  coat !  Well,  here  he  is, 
sure  enough,  in  a  tight  silk  shirt,  and  with  two  things  that  look 
like  batter  puddings  in  the  place  of  his  fists.  Now  see  that  other 
fellow  with  another  pair  of  batter  puddings — ^the  big  one  with 
the  broad  shoulders;  he  will  certainly  knock  the  little  man's 
head  off,  if  he  strikes  him.  Feinting,  dodging,  stopping,  hitting, 
countering — little  man's  head  not  oif  yet.  You  might  as  well 
try  to  jump  upon  your  own  shadow  as  to  hit  the  little  man's  in- 
tellectual features.  He  needn't  have  taken  off  the  gold-bowed 
spectacles  at  all.  Quick,  cautious,  shifty,  nimble,  cool,  he  catches 
all  the  fierce  lunges  or  gets  out  of  their  reach,  till  his  turn  comes, 
and  then,  whack  goes  one  of  the  batter  puddings  against  the  big 
one's  ribs,  and  bang  goes  the  other  into  the  big  one's  face,  and 
staggering,  shuffiing,  slipping,  tripping,  collapsing,  sprawling, 
down  goes  the  big  one  in  a  miscellaneous  bundle.  If  my  young 
friend,  whose  excellent  article  I  have  referred  to,  could  only  in- 
troduce the  manly  art  of  self-defence  among  the  clergy,  I  am 
satisfied  that  we  should  have  better  sermons  and  an  infinitely  less 
quarrelsome  church-militant.  A  bout  with  the  gloves  would  let 
off  the  ill-nature  and  cure  the  indigestion,  which,  united,  have 
embroiled  their  subject  in  a  bitter  controversy.  We  should  then 
often  hear  that  a  point  of  difference  between  an  infallible  and  a 
heretic,  instead  of  being  vehemently  discussed  in  a  series  of 
newspaper  articles,  had  been  settled  by  a  friendly  contest  in 
several  rounds,  at  the  close  of  which  the  parties  shook  hands 
and  appeared  cordially  reconciled. 

But  boxing  you  and  I  are  too  old  for,  I  am  afraid.  I  was 
for  a  moment  tempted,  by  the  contagion  of  muscular  electricity 
last  evening,  to  try  the  gloves  with  the  Benicia  Boy,  who  looked 
in  as  a  friend  to  the  noble  art ;  but  remembering  that  he  had 
twice  my  weight  and  half  my  age,  besides  the  advantage  of  his 
training,  I  sat  still  and  said  nothing. 

There  is  one  other  delicate  point  I  wish  to  speak  of  with 
reference  to  old  age.  I  refer  to  the  use  of  dioptric  media  which 
correct  the  diminished  refracting  power  of  the  humors  of  the 
eve — in  other  words,  spectacles.    I  don't  use  them.    All  I  ask  is 


THE  PROFESSOR'S  PAPER  287 

a  large,  fair  type,  a  strong  daylight  or  gas-light,  and  one  yard 
of  focal  distance,  and  my  eyes  are  as  good  as  ever.  But  if 
your  eyes  fail,  I  can  tell  you  something  encouraging.  There  is 
now  living  in  New  York  State  an  old  gentleman  who,  perceiv- 
ing his  sight  to  fail,  immediately  took  to  exercising  it  on  the 
finest  print,  and  in  this  way  fairly  bullied  Nature  out  of  her  fool- 
ish habit  of  taking  liberties  at  five-and-forty,  or  thereabout. 
And  now  this  old  gentleman  performs  the  most  extraordinary 
feats  with  his  pen,  showing  that  his  eyes  must  be  a  pair  of  micro- 
scopes. I  should  be  afraid  to  say  to  you  how  much  he  writes  in 
the  compass  of  a  half-dime — whether  the  Psalms  or  the  Gospels, 
or  the  Psalms  and  the  Gospels,  I  won't  be  positive. 

But  now  let  me  tell  you  this.  If  the  time  comes  when  you 
must  lay  down  the  fiddle  and  the  bow,  because  your  fingers  are 
too  stiff,  and  drop  the  ten-foot  sculls,  because  your  arms  are  too 
weak,  and  after  dallying  awhile  with  eyeglasses,  come  at  last  to 
the  undisguised  reality  of  spectacles — if  the  time  comes  when 
that  fire  of  life  we  spoke  of  has  burned  so  low  that  where  its 
flames  reverberated  there  is  only  the  sombre  stain  of  regret,  and 
where  its  coals  glowed,  only  the  white  ashes  that  cover  the 
embers  of  memory — don't  let  your  heart  grow  cold,  and  you  may 
carry  cheerfulness  and  love  with  you  into  the  teens  of  your 
second  century,  if  you  can  last  so  long.  As  our  friend,  the  poet, 
once  said,  in  some  of  those  old-fashioned  heroics  of  his  which  he 
keeps  for  his  private  reading — 

Call  him  not  old,  whose  visionary  brain 

Holds  o'er  the  past  its  undivided  reign. 

For  him  in  vain  the  envious  seasons  roll 

Who  bears  eternal  summer  in  his  soul. 

If  yet  the  minstrel's  song,  the  poet's  lay, 

Spring  with  her  birds,  or  children  with  their  play, 

Or  maiden's  smile,  or  heavenly  dream  of  art 

Stir  the  few  life-drops  creeping  round  his  heart — 

Turn  to  the  record  where  his  years  are  told — 

Count  his  gray  hairs — they  cannot  make  him  old ! 

End  of  the  Professor's  paper 

[The  above  essay  was  not  read  at  one  time,  but  in  several 
instalments,  and  accompanied  by  various  comments  from  dif- 
ferent persons  at  the  table.    The  company  were  in  the  main  at- 


288  HOLMES 

tentive,  with  the  exception  of  a  little  somnolence  on  the  part  of 
the  old  gentleman  opposite  at  times,  and  a  few  sly,  malicious 
questions  about  the  "  old  boys  "  on  the  part  of  that  forward 
young  fellow  who  has  figured  occasionally,  not  always  to  his 
advantage,  in  these  reports. 

On  Sunday  mornings,  in  obedience  to  a  feeling  I  am  not 
ashamed  of,  I  have  always  tried  to  give  a  more  appropriate 
character  to  our  conversation.  I  have  never  read  them  my  ser- 
mon yet,  and  I  don't  know  that  I  shall,  as  some  of  them  might 
take  my  convictions  as  a  personal  indignity  to  themselves.  But 
having  read  our  company  so  much  of  the  Professor's  talk  about 
age  and  other  subjects  connected  with  physical  life,  I  took  the 
next  Sunday  morning  to  repeat  to  them  the  following  poem 
of  his,  which  I  have  had  by  me  some  time.  He  calls  it — I  sup- 
pose, for  his  professional  friends — "  The  Anatomist's  Hymn  " ; 
but  I  shall  name  it — ] 

THE  LIVING  TEMPLE 

Not  in  the  world  of  light  alone, 
Where  God  has  built  his  blazing  throne, 
Nor  yet  alone  in  earth  below, 
With  belted  seas  that  come  and  go, 
And  endless  isles  of  sunlit  green. 
Is  all  thy  Maker's  glory  seen : 
Look  in  upon  thy  wondrous  frame — 
Eternal  wisdom  still  the  same ! 

The  smooth,  soft  air  with  pulse-like  waves 
Flows  murmuring  through  its  hidden  caves, 
Whose  streams  of  brightening  purple  rush 
Fired  with  a  new  and  livelier  blush. 
While  all  their  burden  of  decay 
The  ebbing  current  steals  away, 
And  red  with  Nature's  flame  they  start 
From  the  warm  fountains  of  the  heart. 

No  rest  that  throbbing  slave  may  ask. 
Forever  quivering  o'er  his  task. 
While  far  and  wide  a  crimson  jet 
Leaps  forth  to  fill  the  woven  net 
Which  in  unnumbered  crossing  tides 
The  flood  of  burning  life  divides. 
Then  kindling  each  decaying  part 
Creeps  back  to  find  the  throbbing  heart. 


THE   PROFESSOR'S   PAPER  289 

But  warned  with  that  unchanging  flame 
Behold  the  outward  moving  frame, 
Its  living  marbles  jointed  strong 
With  glistening  band  and  silvery  thong, 
And  linked  to  reason's  guiding  reins 
By  myriad  rings  in  trembling  chains, 
Each  graven  with  the  threaded  zone 
Which  claims  it  at  the  master's  own. 

See  how  yon  beam  of  seeming  white 

Is  braided  out  of  seven-hued  light, 

Yet  in  those  lucid  globes  no  ray 

By  any  chance  shall  break  astray. 

Hark  how  the  rolling  surge  of  sound 

Arches  and  spirals  circling  round, 

Wakes  the  hushed  spirit  through  thine  ear 

With  music  it  is  heaven  to  hear. 

Then  mark  the  cloven  sphere  that  holds 

All  thought  in  its  mysterious  folds, 

That  feels  sensation's  faintest  thrill 

And  flashes  forth  the  sovereign  will; 

Think  on  the  stormy  world  that  dwells  • 

Locked  in  its  dim  and  clustering  cells ! 

The  lightning  gleams  of  power  it  sheds 

Along  its  hollow  glassy  threads  ! 

O  Father !  grant  thy  love  divine 
To  make  these  mystic  temples  thine ! 
When  wasting  age  and  wearying  strife. 
Have  sapped  the  leaning  walls  of  life. 
When  darkness  gathers  over  all. 
And  the  last  tottering  pillars  fall. 
Take  the  poor  dust  thy  mercy  warms 
And  mould  it  into  heavenly  forms! 


19 


THE    OLD    OAK    OF    ANDOVER 


BY 


HARRIET    BEECHER    STOWE 


HARRIET   BEECHER   STOWE 
1812— 1896 

Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  was  born  in  1812  in  the  little  town  of  Litch- 
field, Connecticut,  where  her  father.  Dr.  Lyman  Beecher,  was  a  clergy- 
man. Her  mother  died  while  Harriet  was  very  young,  leaving  a  family 
of  eight  children  to  the  mother's  care  of  her  oldest  sister  Catherine.  In 
1826  Dr.  Beecher  received  a  call  to  Boston,  and  Harriet  and  Catherine 
went  to  Hartford,  where  the  latter  established  a  young  ladies'  school,  in 
which  Harriet  was  first  a  pupil  and  later  an  instructor.  Six  years  later 
her  father  became  the  president  of  the  Lane  Theological  Seminary  at 
Cincinnati,  Ohio,  and  the  two  sisters  accompanied  him  to  enter  on  an- 
other educational  enterprise.  It  was  during  her  residence  in  Cincin- 
nati, on  the  border  of  the  slave  State  of  Kentucky,  that  Harriet  was 
first  deeply  impressed  by  the  sorrows  of  slavery.  In  1836  she  married 
Professor  Stowe,  one  of  the  instructors  in  the  theological  seminary,  and 
a  man  of  lofty  character  and  fine  intellect.  Mrs.  Stowe  at  this  period 
contributed  regularly  to  the  magazines,  in  spite  of  her  numerous  house- 
hold cares. 

In  1850  Professor  Stowe  was  called  to  Bowdoin  College,  and  the 
family  removed  to  Brunswick.  Here,  during  the  next  two  years,  Mrs. 
Stowe  wrote  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,  or  Life  among  the  Lowly,"  the  work 
appearing  in  serial  form  in  the  "  National  Era,"  published  in  Washing- 
ton. She  received  only  the  paltry  sum  of  three  hundred  dollars  for 
the  serial.  In  book  form  the  work  achieved  a  most  astounding  suc- 
cess, three  thousand  copies  being  sold  on  the  day  of  publication,  and 
three  hundred  thousand  more  during  the  first  year.  It  was  translated 
into  forty  languages,  and  became  the  most  widely  read  novel  ever  writ- 
ten in  the  English  language. 

In  1853  the  Stowes  removed  to  Andover,  where  Professor  Stowe 
became  one  of  the  leading  teachers  in  the  theological  seminary.  This 
period  was  one  of  the  happiest  and  busiest  of  Mrs.  Stowe's  life,  and 
Andover  was  always  very  dear  to  her.  In  1856  "  Dred  "  was  published, 
and  in  1859  she  brought  out  "  The  Minister's  Wooing,"  a  work  in 
which  the  author  struck  a  new  note,  taking  New  England  life  instead 
of  slavery  for  her  theme.  She  made  her  first  trip  to  Europe  in  1853, 
her  reception,  especially  in  England,  surpassing  that  ever  accorded  to 
a  woman  not  of  royal  blood.  During  the  war  her  literary  activity  was 
incessant.  She  strove  especially  to  stir  up  sympathy  for  the  Northern 
cause  in  England.  Her  noble  "  Appeal  "  to  the  women  of  England 
did  perhaps  as  much  for  the  cause  of  the  Union  as  the  eloquent  speeches 
of  her  famous  brother,  Henry  Ward  Beecher.  Her  later  books  include 
"  Agnes  of  Sorrento,"  "  The  Pearl  of  Orr's  Island,"  and  "  Oldtown 
Folks."  She  also  published  a  book  of  poems,  including  many  of  ex- 
quisite beauty.  Professor  Stowe  died  in  1886;  Mrs.  Stowe  survived 
her  husband  ten  years,  passing  away  in  1896  at  the  age  of  eighty-five. 
Both  were  buried  at  Andover. 

Mrs.  Stowe's  literary  style  is  marked  by  intense  earnestness,  sym- 
pathy and  religious  conviction.  Her  pen  appeals  to  the  human  heart 
with  sympathetic  and  stirring  effect.  Even  in  her  short  sketches  some 
definite  purpose  is  always  discernible,  as  in  the  charming  paper  on  "  The 
Old  Oak  of  Andover,"  which  begins  as  a  reverie  and  ends  as  a  sermon. 
When  we  consider  that  most  of  her  life  was  passed  amid  household 
cares  that  gave  little  time  for  reading  or  meditation,  the  volume  of  her 
literary  work  and  the  beauty  of  her  style  are,  indeed,  remarkable. 


292 


THE  OLD  OAK   OF  ANDOVER 

A  Revery 

SILENTLY,  with  dreamy  languor,  the  fleecy  snow  is  fall- 
ing.    Through  the  windows,  flowery  with  blossoming 
geranium  and  heliotrope,  through  the  downward  sweep 
of  crimson  and  muslin  curtain,  one  watches  it  as  the  wind  whirls 
and  sways  it  in  swift  eddies. 

Right  opposite  our  house,  on  our  Mount  Clear,  is  an  old  oak, 
the  apostle  of  the  primeval  forest.  Once,  when  this  place  was 
all  wildwood,  the  man  who  was  seeking  a  spot  for  the  location 
of  the  buildings  of  Phillips  Academy  climbed  this  oak,  using 
it  as  a  sort  of  green  watch  tower,  from  whence  he  might  gain 
a  view  of  the  surrounding  country.  Age  and  time,  since  then, 
have  dealt  hardly  with  the  stanch  old  fellow.  His  limbs  have 
been  here  and  there  shattered ;  his  back  begins  to  look  mossy 
and  dilapidated;  but  after  all,  there  is  a  piquant,  decided  air 
about  him,  that  speaks  the  old  age  of  a  tree  of  distinction,  a 
kingly  oak.  To-day  I  see  him  standing,  dimly  revealed  through 
the  mist  of  falling  snows ;  to-morrow's  sun  will  show  the  outline 
of  his  gnarled  limbs — all  rose  color  with  their  soft  snow  burden ; 
and  again  a  few  months,  and  spring  will  breathe  on  him,  and 
he  will  draw  a  long  breath,  and  break  out  once  more,  for  the 
three  hundredth  time,  perhaps,  into  a  vernal  crown  of  leaves.  I 
sometimes  think  that  leaves  are  the  thoughts  of  trees,  and  that 
if  we  only  knew  it,  we  should  find  their  life's  experience  recorded 
in  them.  Our  oak!  what  a  crop  of  meditations  and  remem- 
brances must  he  have  thrown  forth,  leafing  out  century  after 
century.  Awhile  he  spake  and  thought  only  of  red  deer  and 
Indians ;  of  the  trillium  that  opened  its  white  triangle  in  his 
shade;  of  the  scented  arbutus,  fair  as  the  pink  ocean  shell, 
weaving  her  fragrant  mats  in  the  moss  at  his  feet ;  of  feathery 
ferns,  casting  their  silent  shadows  on  the  checkerberry  leaves, 
and  all  those  sweet,  wild,  nameless,  half-mossy  things,  that  live 

293 


294  STOWE 

in  the  gloom  of  forests,  and  are  only  desecrated  when  brought 
to  scientific  light,  laid  out  and  stretched  on  a  botanic  bier.  Sweet 
old  forest  days ! — when  blue  jay,  and  yellow  hammer,  and  bobo- 
link made  his  leaves  merry,  and  summer  was  a  long  opera  of 
such  music  as  Mozart  dimly  dreamed.  But  then  came  human 
kind  bustling  beneath ;  wondering,  fussing,  exploring,  measur- 
ing, treading  down  flowers,  cutting  down  trees,  scaring  bobo- 
links— and  Andover,  as  men  say,  began  to  be  settled. 

Stanch  men  were  they — these  Puritan  fathers  of  Andover. 
The  old  oak  must  have  felt  them  something  akin  to  himself. 
Such  strong,  wrestling  limbs  had  they,  so  gnarled  and  knotted 
were  they,  yet  so  outbursting  with  a  green  and  vernal  crown, 
yearly  springing,  of  noble  and  generous  thoughts,  rustling  with 
leaves  which  shall  be  for  the  healing  of  nations. 

These  men  were  content  with  the  hard,  dry  crust  for  them- 
selves, that  they  might  sow  seeds  of  abundant  food  for  us,  their 
children ;  men  out  of  whose  hardness  in  enduring  we  gain  lei- 
sure to  be  soft  and  graceful,  through  whose  poverty  we  have  be- 
come rich.  Like  Moses,  they  had  for  their  portion  only  the  pain 
and  weariness  of  the  wilderness,  leaving  to  us  the  fruition  of 
the  promised  land.  Let  us  cherish  for  their  sake  the  old  oak, 
beautiful  in  its  age  as  the  broken  statue  of  some  antique  wrestler, 
brown  with  time,  yet  glorious  in  its  suggestion  of  past  achieve- 
ment. 

I  think  all  this  the  more  that  I  have  recently  come  across  the 
following  passage  in  one  of  our  religious  papers.  The  writer 
expresses  a  kind  of  sentiment  which  one  meets  very  often  upon 
this  subject,  and  leads  one  to  wonder  what  glamor  could  have 
fallen  on  the  minds  of  any  of  the  descendants  of  the  Puritans, 
that  they  should  cast  nettles  on  those  honored  graves  where 
they  should  be  proud  to  cast  their  laurels. 

''  It  is  hard,"  he  says,  "  for  a  lover  of  the  beautiful — not  a  mere 
lover,  but  a  believer  in  its  divinity  also — to  forgive  the  Puritans, 
or  to  think  charitably  of  them.  It  is  hard  for  him  to  keep  Fore- 
fathers' Day,  or  to  subscribe  to  the  Plymouth  Monument ;  hard 
to  look  fairly  at  what  they  did,  with  the  memory  of  what  they 
destroyed  rising  up  to  choke  thankfulness ;  for  they  were  as 
one-sided  and  narrow-minded  a  set  of  men  as  ever  lived,  and 
saw  one  of  truth's  faces  only — the  hard,  stern,  practical  face, 
without  loveliness,  without  beauty,  and  only  half  dear  to  God. 


THE   OLD   OAK   OF   ANDOVER  295 

The  Puritan  flew  in  the  face  of  facts,  not  because  he  saw  them 
and  disliked  them,  but  because  he  did  not  see  them.  He  saw 
fooHshness,  lying,  stealing,  worldliness — the  very  mammon  of 
unrighteousness  rioting  in  the  world  and  bearing  sway — and 
he  ran  full  tilt  against  the  monster,  hating  it  with  a  very  mortal 
and  mundane  hatred,  and  anxious  to  see  it  bite  the  dust  that 
his  own  horn  might  be  exalted.  It  was  in  truth  only  another 
horn  of  the  old  dilemma,  tossing  and  goring  grace  and  beauty, 
and  all  the  loveliness  of  life,  as  if  they  were  the  enemies  instead 
of  the  sure  friends  of  God  and  man." 

Now,  to  those  who  say  this  we  must  ask  the  question  with 
which  Socrates  of  old  pursued  the  sophist:  What  is  beauty? 
If  beauty  be  only  physical,  if  it  appeal  only  to  the  senses,  if  it  be 
only  an  enchantment  of  graceful  forms,  sweet  sounds,  then  in- 
deed there  might  be  something  of  truth  in  this  sweeping  declara- 
tion that  the  Puritan  spirit  is  the  enemy  of  beauty. 

The  very  root  and  foundation  of  all  artistic  inquiry  lies  here. 
What  is  beauty  ?  And  to  this  question  God  forbid  that  we  Chris- 
tians should  give  a  narrower  answer  than  Plato  gave  in  the  old 
times  before  Christ  arose,  for  he  directs  the  aspirant  who  would 
discover  the  beautiful  to  *'  consider  of  greater  value  the  beauty 
existing  in  the  soul,  than  that  existing  in  the  body."  More 
gracefully  he  teaches  the  same  doctrine  when  he  tells  us  that 
**  there  are  two  kinds  of  Venus  (beauty),  the  one,  the  elder,  who 
had  no  mother,  and  was  the  daughter  of  Uranus  (heaven), 
whom  we  name  the  celestial ;  the  other,  younger,  daughter  of 
Jupiter  and  Dione,  whom  we  call  the  vulgar." 

Now,  if  disinterestedness,  faith,  patience,  piety,  have  a  beauty 
celestial  and  divine,  then  were  our  fathers  worshippers  of  the 
beautiful.  If  high-mindedness  and  spotless  honor  are  beautiful 
things,  they  had  those.  What  work  of  art  can  compare  with  a 
lofty  and  heroic  life  ?  Is  it  not  better  to  be  a  Moses  than  to  be 
a  Michael  Angelo  making  statues  of  Moses?  Is  not  the  life 
of  Paul  a  sublimer  work  of  art  than  Raphael's  cartoons  ?  Are 
not  the  patience,  the  faith,  the  undying  love  of  Mary  by  the 
cross,  more  beautiful  than  all  the  Madonna  paintings  in  the 
world  ?  If,  then,  we  would  speak  truly  of  our  fathers,  we  should 
say  that,  having  their  minds  fixed  on  that  celestial  beauty  of 
which  Plato  speaks,  they  held  in  slight  esteem  that  more  com- 
mon and  earthly. 


296  STOWE 

Should  we  continue  the  parable  in  Plato's  manner,  we  might 
say  that  the  earthly  and  visible  Venus,  the  outward  grace  of  art 
and  nature,  was  ordained  of  God  as  a  priestess,  through  whom 
men  were  to  gain  access  to  the  divine,  invisible  One ;  but  that 
men,  in  their  blindness,  ever  worship  the  priestess  instead  of  the 
divinity. 

Therefore  it  is  that  great  reformers  so  often  must  break  the 
shrines  and  temples  of  the  physical  and  earthly  beauty,  when 
they  seek  to  draw  men  upward  to  that  which  is  high  and  divine. 

Christ  says  of  John  the  Baptist,  "  What  went  ye  out  for  to 
see?  A  man  clothed  in  soft  raiment?  Behold  they  which  are 
clothed  in  soft  raiment  are  in  king's  palaces."  So  was  it  when 
our  fathers  came  here.  There  were  enough  wearing  soft  rai- 
ment and  dwelling  in  kings'  palaces.  Life  in  papal  Rome  and 
prelatic  England  was  weighed  down  with  blossoming  luxury. 
There  were  abundance  of  people  to  think  of  pictures,  and  statues, 
and  gems,  and  cameos,  vases  and  marbles,  and  all  manner  of 
deliciousness.  The  world  was  all  drunk  with  the  enchantments 
of  the  lower  Venus,  and  it  was  needful  that  these  men  should 
come.  Baptist-like  in  the  wilderness,  in  raiment  of  camel's  hair. 
We  need  such  men  now.  Art,  they  tell  us,  is  waking  in  Amer- 
ica; a  love  of  the  beautiful  is  beginning  to  unfold  its  wings; 
but  what  kind  of  art,  and  what  kind  of  beauty  ?  Are  we  to  fill 
our  houses  with  pictures  and  gems,  and  to  see  that,  even  our 
drinking  cup  and  vase  are  wrought  in  graceful  pattern,  and  to 
lose  our  reverence  for  self-denial,  honor,  and  faith? 

Is  our  Venus  to  be  the  frail,  ensnaring  Aphrodite,  or  the 
starry,  divine  Urania? 


;r,uM 


k^i-. 


CHOICE   EXAMPLES  OF   EARLY   PRINTING   AND 
ENGRAVING. 

Fac -similes  from  Rare  and  Curious  Books. 


EARLY   VENETIAN  PRINTING. 
Design  from  a  hook  printed-at  yenice  in  148J  by  Bartolomeo  Mimatote. 

As  Bernardo  was  called  Pictor,  the  painter,  so  the  printer  Bartolomeo  won  the 
title  of  Miniatore  by  his  drawings  in  miniatured  pigment ;  he  was  a  miniaturist  in 
the  literal  sense  of  the  term,  and  his  talent  is  exhibited  to  advantage  in  the  example 
before  us.  The  classic  origin  of  the  design  is  evident,  and  nothing  can  be  more 
delicate,  more  harmonious,  and  appropriate  than  the  white  forms  on  the  red  back- 
ground. The  quaint  view  of  Ferfara  is  interesting,  as  giving  an  idea  of  the  fortifi- 
cations of  a  sixteenth-century  Italian  city. 


'A^^^(mw^^^^€^^>^ 


PETER    THE    GREAT 


BY 


JOHN     LOTHROP    MOTLEY 


JOHN   LOTHROP   MOTLEY 

1814— 1877 

Born  at  Dorchester,  Massachusetts,  in  1814,  John  Lothrop  Motley 
graduated  from  Harvard  College  in  1831,  and,  like  Bancroft,  travelled 
abroad  to  complete  his  education.  After  several  years  of  study  in  the 
principal  German  universities,  where  he  won  the  warm  friendship  of 
Bismarck,  at  that  time  a  student  at  Gottingen,  Motley  returned  to  Bos- 
ton and  began  the  study  of  law.  After  practising  a  short  time,  he  re- 
tired from  the  profession  and  turned  his  attention  to  literature.  Two 
novels  from  his  pen  proved  to  be  failures,  and  the  young  writer  con- 
cluded that  history  rather  than  fiction  was  the  true  field  for  his  enter- 
prising genius.  He  had  long  been  deeply  interested  in  the  eventful 
history  of  the  Netherlands  during  their  long  struggle  with  Spain,  and 
now  selected  this  period  as  the  subject  of  his  investigation.  In  185 1  he 
went  abroad  a  second  time  to  study  at  first  hand  the  wealth  of  material 
lying  dormant  in  the  libraries  of  Europe,  and  especially  in  the  archives 
of  Holland,  Belgium,  and  Spain.  Fortunately  he  was  possessed  of 
sufficient  means  to  enable  him  to  carry  on  this  work  thoroughly  and 
deliberately.  In  1856  the  first  of  the  three  great  divisions,  into  which 
the  work  had  gradually  shaped  itself  in  his  mind,  was  completed  and 
published  under  the  title  "  The  Rise  of  the  Dutch  Republic."  The  work 
was  at  once  recognized  as  one  of  the  most  notable  historical  productions 
of  the  day,  and  translations  of  it  immediately  appeared  in  Germany, 
France,  and  Holland. 

In  1857  Motley  returned  to  the  United  States,  and  assisted  in  estab- 
lishing the  "  Atlantic  Monthly."  He  soon  found  it  necessary,  however, 
to  return  to  Europe,  where  alone  could  be  found  the  books  and  manu- 
scripts necessary  for  the  continuation  of  his  work.  His  researches  car- 
ried him  through  the  state  papers  at  Brussels,  the  Spanish  archives  at 
Simancas,  and  he  had  occasion  to  visit  the  great  libraries  at  London, 
Paris,  Venice,  and  other  European  capitals.  In  i860  appeared  the  first 
part  of  "  The  United  Netherlands,"  and  in  1868  the  second  part.  In 
the  mean  time,  in  1861,  Motley  had  been  appointed  Minister  to  Austria. 
He  was  recalled  in  1867,  and  in  1869  was  appointed  Minister  to  Great 
Britain.  A  year  later  he  was  abruptly  called  home  on  account,  as  is 
now  known,  of  his  friendship  for  Charles  Sumner,  at  that  moment  in 
great  disfavor  with  the  administration.  Although  his  recall  under  these 
circumstances  was  no  disgrace.  Motley  looked  upon  it  as  such,  and 
felt  it  keenly.  In  1874  he  published  "  The  Life  and  Death  of  John  of 
Barneveld."  It  was  the  historian's  intention  to  make  a  history  of  the 
Thirty  Years'  War  the  third  division  of  his  historical  labors,  but  death, 

in  1877,  prevented  the  pxprution_of  this  plan. 

[otley~TS7"T)erhaps,  the  most  able  and  successful  of  American  his- 
torians. In  his  skill  in  delineating  character,  and  in  presenting  to  the 
reader  a  comprehensive  view  of  intricate  events,  he  has  not  many  equals, 
and  few  superiors.  His  style  is  masterly.  He  is  one  of  the  classical 
historians  of  the  century.  Throughout,  his  pages  abound  in  brilliant 
description,  in  vivid,  swift-moving  narrative ;  they  sparkle  with  a  keen, 
and  sometimes  sarcastic  humor,  and  often  thrills  us  with  passages  of 
dramatic  power.  _       ,  ' — 


298 


PETER  THE  GREAT 

ONE  day,  in  the  year  1697,  the  great  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough happened  to  be  in  the  village  of  Saardam. 
He  visited  the  dockyard  of  one  Mynheer  Calf,  a  rich 
shipbuilder,  and  was  struck  with  the  appearance  of  a  journey- 
man at  work  there.  He  was  a  large,  powerful  man,  dressed  in 
a  red  woollen  shirt  and  duck  trousers,  with  a  sailor's  hat,  and 
seated,  with  an  adze  in  his  hand,  upon  a  rough  log  of  timber 
which  lay  on  the  ground.  The  man's  features  were  bold  and 
regular,  his  dark  brown  hair  fell  in  natural  curls  about  his  neck, 
his  complexion  was  strong  and  ruddy,  with  veins  somewhat 
distended,  indicating  an  ardent  temperament  and  more  luxuri- 
ous habits  than  comported  with  his  station;  and  his  dark, 
keen  eye  glanced  from  one  object  to  another  with  remarkable 
restlessness.  He  was  engaged  in  earnest  conversation  with  some 
strangers,  whose  remarks  he  occasionally  interrupted,  while  he 
rapidly  addressed  them  in  a  guttural  but  not  unmusical  voice. 
As  he  became  occasionally  excited  in  conversation,  his  features 
twitched  convulsively,  the  blood  rushed  to  his  forehead,  his 
arms  were  tossed  about  with  extreme  violence  of  gesticulation, 
and  he  seemed  constantly  upon  the  point  of  giving  way  to 
some  explosion  of  passion,  or  else  of  falling  into  a  fit  of  cata- 
lepsy. His  companions,  however,  did  not  appear  alarmed  by 
his  vehemence,  although  they  seemed  to  treat  him  with  remark- 
able deference;  and,  after  a  short  time,  his  distorted  features 
would  resume  their  symmetry  and  agreeable  expression,  his 
momentary  frenzy  would  subside,  and  a  bright  smile  would  light 
up  his  whole  countenance. 

The  duke  inquired  the  name  of  this  workman,  and  was  told 
it  was  one  Pieter  Baas,  a  foreign  journeyman  of  remarkable 
mechanical  abilities  and  great  industry.  Approaching,  he  en- 
tered into  some  slight  conversation  with  him  upon  matters  per- 
taining to  his  craft.     While  they  were  conversing  a  stranger 

299 


300 


MOTLEY 


of  foreign  mien  and  costume  appeared,  holding  a  voluminous 
letter  in  his  hand;  the  workman  started  up,  snatched  it  from 
his  hand,  tore  off  the  seals  and  greedily  devoured  its  contents, 
while  the  stately  Marlborough  walked  away  unnoticed.  The 
duke  was  well  aware  that,  in  this  thin  disguise,  he  saw  the 
Czar  of  Muscovy.  Pieter  Baas,  or  Boss  Peter,  or  Master  Peter, 
was  Peter  the  despot  of  all  the  Russians,  a  man  who,  having 
just  found  himself  the  undisputed  proprietor  of  a  quarter  of 
the  globe  with  all  its  inhabitants,  had  opened  his  eyes  to  the 
responsibilities  of  his  position,  and  had  voluntarily  descended 
from  his  throne  for  the  noble  purpose  of  qualifying  himself  to 
reascend  it. 

The  empire  of  Russia,  at  this  moment  more  than  twice  as 
large  as  Europe,  having  a  considerable  extent  of  seacoasts, 
with  flourishing  commercial  havens  both  upon  the  Baltic  and 
the  Black  Seas,  and  a  chain  of  internal  communication,  by 
canal  and  river,  connecting  them  both  with  the  Caspian  and 
the  Volga,  was  at  the  accession  of  Peter  I  of  quite  sufficient 
dimensions  for  any  reasonable  monarch's  ambition,  but  of  most 
unfortunate  geographical  position.  Shut  off  from  civilized 
western  Europe  by  vast  and  thinly  peopled  forests  and  plains, 
having  for  neighbors  only  "  the  sledded  Polack,"  the  Turk,  the 
Persian,  and  the  Chinese,  and  touching  nowhere  upon  the  ocean, 
that  great  highway  of  civilization — the  ancient  empire  of  the 
Czars  seemed  always  in  a  state  of  suffocation.  Remote  from 
the  sea,  it  was  a  mammoth  without  lungs,  incapable  of  perform- 
ing the  functions  belonging  to  its  vast  organization,  and  pre- 
senting to  the  world  the  appearance  of  a  huge,  incomplete,  and 
inert  mass,  waiting  the  advent  of  some  new  Prometheus  to  in- 
spire it  with  life  and  light. 

Its  capital,  the  hisarre  and  fantastic  Moscow,  with  its  vast, 
turreted,  and  venerable  Kremlin — its  countless  churches,  with 
their  flashing  spires  and  clustering  and  turbaned  minarets  glit- 
tering in  green,  purple,  and  gold ;  its  mosques,  with  the  cross 
supplanting  the  crescent;  its  streets  swarming  with  bearded 
merchants  and  ferocious  janizaries,  while  its  female  population 
were  immured  and  invisible — was  a  true  type  of  the  empire, 
rather  Asiatic  than  European,  and  yet  compounded  of  both. 

The  government,  too,  was  far  more  Oriental  than  European 
in  its  character.    The  Normans  had,  to  be  sure,  in  the  eleventh 


PETER  THE  GREAT  301 

century  taken  possession  of  the  Russian  government  with  the 
same  gentlemanHke  effrontery  with  which,  at  about  the  same 
time,  they  had  seated  themselves  upon  every  throne  in  Europe ; 
and  the  crown  of  Ruric  had  been  transmitted  Hke  the  other 
European  crowns  for  many  generations,  till  it  descended 
through  a  female  branch  upon  the  head  of  the  Romanoffs,  the 
ancestors  of  Peter  and  the  present  imperial  family.  But  though 
there  might  be  said  to  be  an  established  dynasty,  the  succession 
to  the  throne  was  controlled  by  the  Strelitzes,  the  licentious 
and  ungovernable  soldiery  of  the  capital,  as  much  as  the  Turk- 
ish or  Roman  Empire  by  the  janizaries  or  pretorians;  and  the 
history  of  the  government  was  but  a  series  of  palace-revolutions, 
in  which  the  sovereign,  the  tool  alternately  of  the  priesthood 
and  the  body-guard,  was  elevated,  deposed,  or  strangled,  ac- 
cording to  the  prevalence  of  different  factions  in  the  capital. 
The  government  was  in  fact,  as  it  has  been  epigrammatically 
characterized,  "  a  despotism  tempered  by  assassination." 

The  father  of  Peter  I,  Alexis  Michaelovitch,  had  indeed  pro- 
jected reforms  in  various  departments  of  the  government.  He 
seems  to  have  been,  to  a  certain  extent,  aware  of  the  capacity 
of  his  empire,  and  to  have  had  some  faint  glimmerings  of  the 
responsibility  which  weighed  upon  him,  as  the  inheritor  of  this 
vast  hereditary  estate.  He  undertook  certain  revisions  of  the 
laws,  if  the  mass  of  contradictory  and  capricious  edicts  which 
formed  the  code  deserve  that  name;  and  his  attention  had 
particularly  directed  itself  to  the  condition  of  the  army  and  the 
church.  Upon  his  death,  in  1677,  he  left  two  sons,  Theodore 
and  John,  and  four  daughters,  by  his  first  wife ;  besides  one  son, 
Peter,  born  in  1672,  and  one  daughter,  Natalia,  by  the  second 
wife,  of  the  house  of  Narischkin.  The  eldest  son,  Theodore, 
succeeded,  whose  administration  was  directed  by  his  sister, 
the  ambitious  and  intriguing  Princess  Sophia,  assisted  by  her 
paramour  Galitzin.  Theodore  died  in  1682,  having  named  his 
half-brother  Peter  as  his  successor,  to  the  exclusion  of  his  own 
brother  John,  who  was  almost  an  idiot.  Sophia,  who,  in  the 
fitful  and  perilous  history  of  Peter's  boyhood,  seems  like  the 
wicked  fairy  in  so  many  Eastern  fables,  whose  mission  is  con- 
stantly to  perplex,  and  if  possible  destroy,  the  virtuous  young 
prince,  who,  however,  struggles  manfully  against  her  enchant- 
ments and  her  hosts  of  allies,  and  comes  out  triumphant  at  last 


302  MOTLEY 

— Sophia,  assisted  by  Couvanski,  general  of  the  Strelitzes,  ex- 
cited a  tumult  in  the  capital.  Artfully  inflaming  the  passions 
of  the  soldiery,  she  directed  their  violence  against  all  those  who 
stood  between  her  and  the  power  she  aimed  at;  many  of  the 
Narischkin  family  (the  maternal  relatives  of  Peter),  with  their 
adherents,  were  butchered  with  wholesale  ferocity;  many 
crown-officers  were  put  to  death;  and  the  princess  at  length 
succeeded  in  proclaiming  the  idiot  John  and  the  infant  Peter 
as  joint  Czars,  and  herself  as  regent. 

From  this  time  forth  Sophia,  having  the  reins  of  govern- 
ment securely  in  her  hand,  took  particular  care  to  surround 
the  youthful  Peter  with  the  worst  influences.  She  exposed  him 
systematically  to  temptation,  she  placed  about  him  the  most 
depraved  and  licentious  associates,  and  seems  to  have  encour- 
aged the  germination  of  every  vicious  propensity  with  the  most 
fostering  care.  In  1689,  during  the  absence  of  Prince  Galitzin 
upon  his  second  unsuccessful  invasion  of  the  Crimea,  Peter 
was  married,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  through  the  influence  of 
a  faction  hostile  to  Sophia,  to  a  young  lady  of  the  Lapouchin 
family.  After  the  return  of  Galitzin  a  desperate  revolt  of  the 
Strelitzes  was  concerted  between  their  general  and  Sophia  and 
Galitzin,  whose  object  was  to  seize  and  murder  Peter.  He 
saved  himself  for  the  second  time  in  the  convent  of  the  Trinity 
— the  usual  place  of  refuge  when  the  court  was  beleaguered, 
as  was  not  unusual,  by  the  janizaries — assembled  around  him 
those  of  the  boiars  and  the  soldiers  who  were  attached  to  him, 
and  with  the  personal  bravery  and  promptness  which  have  de- 
scended like  an  heirloom  in  his  family,  defeated  the  conspirators 
at  a  blow,  banished  Galitzin  to  Siberia,  and  locked  up  Sophia  in 
a  convent,  where  she  remained  till  her  death  fifteen  years  after- 
ward. His  brother  John  remained  nominally  as  joint  Czar  till 
his  death  in  1696. 

In  less  than  a  year  from  this  time  Peter  made  the  acquaint- 
ance of  a  very  remarkable  man,  to  whom,  more  than  to  any 
other,  Russia  seems  to  have  been  indebted  for  the  first  im- 
pulse toward  civilization.  Happening  one  day  to  be  dining  at 
the  house  of  the  Danish  minister,  he  was  pleased  with  the  man- 
ners and  conversation  of  his  excellency's  private  secretary. 
This  was  a  certain  youthful  Genevese  adventurer  named  Lefort. 
He  had  been  educated  for  the  mercantile  profession  and  placed 


PETER   THE   GREAT  303 

in  a  counting-house ;  but  being  of  an  adventurous  disposition, 
with  decided  mihtary  tastes  and  talents,  he  had  enhsted  as  a 
volunteer  and  served  with  some  distinction  in  the  Low  Coun- 
tries. Still  following  his  campaigning  inclinations,  he  enlisted 
under  a  certain  Colonel  Verstin,  who  had  been  commissioned  by 
the  Czar  Alexis  to  pick  up  some  German  recruits,  and  followed 
him  to  Archangel.  Arriving  there,  he  found  that  the  death  of 
Alexis  had  left  no  demand  for  the  services  either  of  himself 
or  the  colonel,  and  after  escaping  with  difficulty  transportation 
to  Siberia,  with  which  he  seems  to  have  been  threatened  for  no 
particular  reason,  he  followed  his  destiny  to  Moscow,  where 
he  found  employment  under  the  Danish  envoy  De  Horn,  and 
soon  after  was  introduced  to  the  Czar. 

It  was  this  young  adventurer,  a  man  of  no  extraordinary 
acquirements,  but  one  who  had  had  the  advantage  of  a  Eu- 
ropean education,  and  the  genius  to  know  its  value  and  to  reap 
its  full  benefit — a  man  of  wonderful  power  of  observation,  in 
whom  intuition  took  the  place  of  experience,  and  who  possessed 
the  rare  faculty  of  impressing  himself  upon  other  minds  with 
that  genial  warmth  and  force  which  render  the  impression  in- 
delible— it  was  this  truant  Genevese  clerk  who  planted  the  first 
seeds  in  the  fertile  but  then  utterly  fallow  mind  of  the  Czar. 
Geniality  and  sympathy  were  striking  characteristics  of  both 
minds,  and  they  seem  to  have  united  by  a  kind  of  elective 
affinity  from  the  first  instant  they  were  placed  in  neighborhood 
of  each  other. 

It  was  from  Lefort  that  the  Czar  first  learned  the  great  su- 
periority of  the  disciplined  troops  of  western  Europe  over  the 
licentious  and  anarchical  soldiery  of  Russia.  It  was  in  concert 
with  Lefort  that  he  conceived  on  the  instant  the  daring  plan  of 
annihilating  the  Strelitzes,  the  body-guard  which  had  set  up 
and  deposed  the  monarchs — a  plan  that  would  have  inevitably 
cost  a  less  sagacious  and  vigorous  prince  his  throne  and  life, 
and  which  he  silently  and  cautiously  matured,  till,  as  we  shall 
have  occasion  to  relate,  it  was  successfully  executed.  Almost 
immediately  after  his  acquaintance  with  Lefort,  he  formed  a 
regiment  upon  the  European  plan,  which  was  to  be  the  germ 
of  the  reformed  army  which  he  contemplated.  This  regiment 
was  called  the  Preobrazinski  body-guard,  from  the  name  of  the 
palace,  and  Lefort  was  appointed  its  colonel,  while  the  Czar  en- 
tered himself  as  drummer. 


304  MOTLEY 

It  was  to  Lefort,  also,  that  the  Czar  was  about  this  time  in- 
debted for  the  acquaintance  of  the  celebrated  Menshikoff.  This 
was  another  adventurer,  who  had  great  influence  upon  the  for- 
tunes of  the  empire,  who  sprang  from  the  very  humblest  origin, 
and  who  seemed  like  Lefort  to  have  been  guided  from  afar  by 
the  finger  of  Providence  to  become  a  fit  instrument  to  carry  out 
the  plans  of  Peter.  The  son  of  miserable  parents  upon  the  banks 
of  the  Volga,  not  even  taught  to  read  or  write,  Menshikoif 
sought  his  fortune  in  Moscow,  and  at  the  age  of  fourteen  became 
apprentice  to  a  pastry-cook,  and  earned  his  living  as  an  itinerant 
vender  of  cakes  and  pies ;  these  he  offered  about  the  streets,  rec- 
ommending them  in  ditties  of  his  own  composing,  which  he 
sang  in  a  very  sweet  voice.  While  engaged  in  this  humble  oc- 
cupation he  happened  one  day  to  attract  the  attention  of  Lefort, 
who  entered  into  some  little  conversation  with  him.  The  Swiss 
volunteer,  who  had  so  lately  expanded  into  the  general  and 
admiral  of  Muscovy,  could  hardly  dream,  nor  did  he  five  long 
enough  to  learn,  that  in  that  fair-haired,  barefooted,  sweet- 
voiced  boy  the  future  prince  of  the  empire,  general,  governor, 
regent,  and  almost  autocrat,  stood  disguised  before  him.  There 
really  seems  something  inexpressibly  romantic  in  the  accidental 
and  strange  manner  in  which  the  chief  actors  in  the  great  drama 
of  Peter's  career  seem  to  have  been  selected  and  to  have  re- 
ceived their  several  parts  from  the  great  hand  of  Fate.  The 
youthful  Menshikoff  was  presented  by  Lefort  to  the  Czar,  who 
was  pleased  with  his  appearance  and  vivacity  and  made  him 
his  page,  and  soon  afterward  his  favorite  and  confidant.  At 
about  the  same  time  that  Peter  commenced  his  model  regiment, 
he  had  also  commenced  building  some  vessels  at  Voroneje,  with 
which  he  had  already  formed  the  design  of  sailing  down  the 
Don  and  conquering  Azov,  the  key  to  the  Black  Sea,  from  the 
Turks. 

Nothing  indicated  the  true  instinct  of  Peter's  genius  more 
decidedly  than  the  constancy  with  which  he  cultivated  a  love 
for  maritime  affairs.  He  is  said  in  infancy  to  have  had  an  al- 
most insane  fear  of  water ;  but,  as  there  was  never  any  special 
reason  assigned  for  it,  this  was  probably  invented  to  make  his 
naval  progress  appear  more  remarkable.  At  all  events,  he 
seems  very  soon  to  have  conquered  his  hydrophobia,  and  in  his 
boyhood  appears  to  have  found  his  chief  amusement  in  paddling 


PETER   THE   GREAT 


305 


about  the  river  Yausa,  which  passes  through  Moscow,  in  a  Httle 
skiff  built  by  a  Dutchman,  which  had  attracted  his  attention  as 
being  capable,  unlike  the  flat-bottomed  scows,  which  were  the 
only  boats  with  which  he  had  been  previously  familiar,  of  sail- 
ing against  the  wind.  Having  solved  the  mystery  of  the  keel, 
he  became  passionately  fond  of  the  sport,  and  not  satisfied  with 
the  navigation  of  the  Yausa,  nor  of  the  lake  Peipus,  upon  which 
he  amused  himself  for  a  time,  he  could  not  rest  till  he  had  pro- 
ceeded to  Archangel,  where  he  purchased  and  manned  a  vessel, 
in  which  he  took  a  cruise  or  two  upon  the  Frozen  Ocean  as  far 
as  Ponoi,  upon  the  coast  of  Lapland. 

Peter  understood  thoroughly  the  position  of  his  empire  the 
moment  he  came  to  the  throne.  Previous  Czars  had  issued  a 
multiplicity  of  edicts,  forbidding  their  subjects  to  go  out  of  the 
empire.  Peter  saw  that  the  great  trouble  was  that  they  could 
not  get  out.  Both  the  natural  gates  of  his  realm  were  locked 
upon  him,  and  the  keys  were  in  the  hands  of  his  enemies.  When 
we  look  at  the  map  of  Russia  now,  we  do  not  sufficiently  ap- 
preciate the  difficulties  of  Peter's  position  at  his  accession.  To 
do  so  is  to  appreciate  his  genius  and  the  strength  of  his  will. 
While  paddling  in  his  little  skiff  on  the  Yausa  he  had  already 
determined  that  this  great  inland  empire  of  his,  whose  inhabi- 
tants had  never  seen  or  heard  of  the  ocean,  should  become  a 
maritime  power.  He  saw  that,  without  seaports,  it  could  never 
be  redeemed  from  its  barbarism,  and  he  was  resolved  to  ex- 
change its  mongrel  Orientalism  for  European  civilization.  Ac- 
cordingly, before  he  had  been  within  five  hundred  miles  of  blue 
water  he  made  himself  a  sailor,  and  at  the  same  time  formed 
the  plan,  which  he  pursued  with  iron  pertinacity  to  its  com- 
pletion, of  conquering  the  Baltic  from  the  Swede,  and  the 
Euxine  from  the  Turk.  Fully  to  see  and  appreciate  the  neces- 
sity of  this  measure  was,  in  the  young,  neglected  barbarian 
prince,  a  great  indication  of  genius;  but  the  resolution  to  set 
about  and  accomplish  this  mighty  scheme  in  the  face  of  ten 
thousand  obstacles  constituted  him  a  hero.  He  was,  in  fact, 
one  of  those  few  characters  whose  existence  has  had  a  con- 
siderable influence  upon  history.  If  he  had  not  lived,  Russia 
would  very  probably  have  been  at  the  present  moment  one  great 
W^allachia  or  Moldavia — a  vast  wilderness,  peopled  by  the  same 
uncouth  barbarians  who  even  now  constitute  the  mass  of  its 
20 


3o6 


MOTLEY 


population,  and  governed  by  a  struggling,  brawling,  confused 
mob  of  unlettered  boiars,  knavish  priests,  and  cut-throat  jani- 
zaries. 

It  was  not  so  trifling  a  task  as  it  may  now  appear  for  Russia 
to  conquer  Sweden  and  the  Sublime  Porte.  On  the  contrary, 
Sweden  was  so  vastly  superior  in  the  scale  of  civilization,  and 
her  disciplined  troops,  trained  for  a  century  upon  the  renowned 
.battle-fields  of  Europe,  with  a  young  monarch  at  their  head 
who  loved  war  as  other  youths  love  a  mistress,  gave  her  such 
a  decided  military  preponderance  that  she  looked  upon  Russia 
with  contempt.  The  Ottoman  Empire,  too,  was  at  that  time 
not  the  rickety,  decrepit  state  which  it  now  is,  holding  itself  up, 
like  the  cabman's  horse,  only  by  being  kept  in  the  shafts,  and 
ready  to  drop  the  first  moment  its  foreign  master  stops  whip- 
ping ;  on  the  contrary,  in  the  very  year  in  which  Peter  inherited 
the  empire  from  his  brother  Theodore,  two  hundred  thousand 
Turks  besieged  Vienna,  and  drove  the  Emperor  Leopold  in 
dismay  from  his  capital.  Although  the  downfall  of  the  Porte 
may  be  dated  from  the  result  of  that  memorable  campaign,  yet 
the  Sultan  was  then  a  vastly  more  powerful  potentate  than  the 
Czar,  and  the  project  to  snatch  from  him  the  citadel  of  Azov, 
the  key  of  the  Black  Sea,  was  one  of  unparalleled  audacity. 

But  Peter  had  already  matured  the  project,  and  was  deter- 
mined to  execute  it.  He  required  seaports,  and,  having  none, 
he  determined  to  seize  those  of  his  neighbors.  Like  the  "  King 
of  Bohemia  with  his  seven  castles,"  he  was  the  "  most  unfor- 
tunate man  in  the  world,  because,  having  the  greatest  passion 
for  navigation  and  all  sorts  of  sea  affairs,  he  had  never  a  sea- 
port in  all  his  dominions."  Without  stopping  however,  like 
Corporal  Trim,  to  argue  the  point  in  casuistry,  whether — Rus- 
sia, like  Bohemia,  being  an  inland  country — it  would  be  con- 
sistent with  Divine  benevolence  for  the  ocean  to  inundate  his 
neighbor's  territory  in  order  to  accommodate  him,  he  took  a 
more  expeditious  method.  ^Preferring  to  go  to  the  ocean,  rather 
than  wait  for  the  ocean  to  come  to  him,  in  1695  he  sailed  down 
the  Don  with  his  vessels,  and  struck  his  first  blow  at  Azov.  His 
campaign  was  unsuccessful,  through  the  treachery  and  deser- 
tion of  an  artillery  officer  named  Jacob;  but,  as  the  Czar 
through  life  possessed  the  happy  faculty  of  never  knowing 
when  he  was  beaten,  he  renewed  his  attack  the  next  year,  and 


PETER  THE   GREAT  307 

carried  the  place  with  the  most  brilliant  success.  The  key  of 
the  Pains  Maeotis  was  thus  in  his  hands,  and  he  returned  in 
triumph  to  Moscow,  where  he  levied  large  sums  upon  the  no- 
bility and  clergy,  to  build  and  sustain  a  fleet  upon  the  waters  he 
had  conquered,  to  drive  the  Tartars  from  the  Crimea,  and  to 
open  and  sustain  a  communication  with  Persia,  through  Circas- 
sia  and  Georgia. 

Thus  the  first  point  was  gained,  and  his  foot  at  last  touched 
the  ocean.  Moreover,  the  Tartars  of  the  Crimea,  who  had  been 
from  time  immemorial  the  pest  of  Russia — a  horde  of  savages, 
who  "  said  their  prayers  but  once  a  year,  and  then  to  a  dead 
horse,"  and  who  had  yet  compelled  the  Muscovites  to  pay  them 
an  annual  tribute,  and  had  inserted  in  their  last  articles  of  peace 
the  ignominious  conditions  that  "  the  Czar  should  hold  the 
stirrup  of  their  Khan,  and  feed  his  horse  with  oats  out  of  his 
cap,  if  they  should  chance  at  any  time  to  meet  " — these  savages 
were  humbled  at  a  blow,  and  scourged  into  insignificance  by  the 
master  hand  of  Peter. 

A  year  or  two  before  the  capture  of  Azov,  Peter  had  re- 
pudiated his  wife.  Various  pretexts,  such  as  infidelity  and 
jealousy,  have  been  assigned  for  the  step;  among  others,  the 
enmity  of  Menshikoff,  whom  she  had  incensed  by  the  accusa- 
tion that  he  had  taken  her  husband  to  visit  lewd  women  who 
had  formerly  been  his  customers  for  pies ;  but  the  real  reason 
was  that,  like  every  one  else  connected  with  the  great  reformer, 
she  opposed  herself  with  the  most  besotted  bigotry  to  all  his 
plans.  She  was  under  the  influence  of  the  priests,  and  the 
priests,  of  course,  opposed  him.  Unfortunately,  the  Czar  left 
his  son  Alexis  in  the  charge  of  the  mother,  a  mistake  which, 
as  we  shall  see,  occasioned  infinite  disaster. 

Peter,  having  secured  himself  a  seaport,  sent  a  number  of 
young  Russians  to  study  the  arts  of  civilized  life  in  Holland, 
Italy,  and  Germany;  but,  being  convinced  that  he  must  do 
everything  for  himself,  and  set  the  example  to  his  subjects,  he 
resolved  to  descend  from  his  throne  and  go  to  Holland  to  per- 
fect himself  in  the  arts,  and  particularly  to  acquire  a  thorough 
practical  knowledge  of  maritime  affairs. 

Having  been  hitherto  unrepresented  in  any  European  court, 
he  fitted  out  a  splendid  embassy  extraordinary  to  the  States- 
General  of  Holland — Lefort,  Golownin,  Voristzin,  and  Menshi- 


3o8  MOTLEY 

koff  being  the  plenipotentiaries,  while  the  Czar  accompanied 
them  incognito,  as  attache  to  the  mission.  The  embassy  pro- 
ceeds through  Esthonia  and  Livonia,  visits  Riga — where  the 
Swedish  governor,  D'Alberg,  refuses  permission  to  visit  the 
fortifications,  an  indignity  which  Peter  resolves  to  punish  se- 
verely— and,  proceeding  through  Prussia,  is  received  with  great 
pomp  by  the  King  at  Konigsberg.  Here  the  Germans  and  Rus- 
sians, **  most  potent  at  pottery,"  meet  each  other  with  exuber- 
ant demonstrations  of  friendship,  and  there  is  much  carousing 
and  hard  drinking.  At  this  place  Peter  leaves  the  embassy, 
travels  privately  and  with  great  rapidity  to  Holland,  and  never 
rests  till  he  has  estabHshed  himself  as  a  journeyman  in  the  dock- 
yard of  Mynheer  Calf.  From  a  seafaring  man  named  Kist, 
whom  he  had  known  in  Archangel,  he  hires  lodgings,  consist- 
ing of  a  small  room  and  kitchen,  and  a  garret  above  them,  and 
immediately  commences  a  laborious  and  practical  devotion  to 
the  trade  which  he  had  determined  to  acquire.  The  Czar  soon 
became  a  most  accomplished  ship-builder.  His  first  essay  was 
upon  a  small  yacht,  which  he  purchased  and  refitted  upon  his 
arrival,  and  in  which  he  spent  all  his  leisure  moments,  sailing 
about  in  the  harbor,  visiting  the  vessels  in  port,  and  astonishing 
the  phlegmatic  Dutchmen  by  the  agility  with  which  he  flew 
about  among  the  shipping.  Before  his  departure  he  laid  down 
and  built,  from  his  own  draught  and  model,  a  sixty-gun  ship, 
at  much  of  the  carpentry  of  which  he  worked  with  his  own 
hands,  and  which  was  declared  by  many  competent  judges  to 
be  an  admirable  specimen  of  naval  architecture. 

But,  besides  his  proficiency  so  rapidly  acquired  in  all  mari- 
time matters,  he  made  considerable  progress  in  civil  engineer- 
ing, mathematics,  and  the  science  of  fortification,  besides  com- 
pletely mastering  the  Dutch  language,  and  acquiring  the  mis- 
cellaneous accomplishments  of  tooth-drawing,  blood-letting,  and 
tapping  for  the  dropsy.  He  was  indefatigable  in  visiting  every 
public  institution,  charitable,  literary,  or  scientific,  in  examining 
the  manufacturing  establishments,  the  corn-mills,  saw-mills, 
paper-mills,  oil-factories,  all  of  which  he  studied  practically, 
with  the  view  of  immediately  introducing  these  branches  of 
industry  into  his  own  dominions ;  and,  before  leaving  Holland, 
he  spent  some  time  at  Texel,  solely  for  the  purpose  of  examin- 
ing the  whale-ships,  and  qualifying  himself  to  instruct  his  sub- 


PETER   THE   GREAT 


309 


jects  in  this  pursuit  after  his  return.  *'  Wat  is  datf  Dat  wil  ik 
sien,''  was  his  eternal  exclamation  to  the  quiet  Hollanders,  who 
looked  with  profound  astonishment  at  this  boisterous  foreign 
prince,  in  carpenter's  disguise,  flying  round  like  a  harlec|uin, 
swinging  his  stick  over  the  backs  of  those  who  stood  in  his  way, 
making  strange  grimaces,  and  rushing  from  one  object  to  an- 
other with  a  restless  activity  of  body  and  mind  which  seemed 
incomprehensible.  He  devoured  every  possible  morsel  of 
knowledge  with  unexampled  voracity ;  but  the  sequel  proved  that 
his  mind  had  an  ostrich-like  digestion  as  well  as  appetite.  The 
seeds  which  he  collected  in  Holland,  Germany,  and  England 
bore  a  rich  harvest  in  the  Scythian  wildernesses,  where  his  hand 
planted  them  on  his  return.  Having  spent  about  nine  months 
in  the  Netherlands,  he  left  that  country  for  England. 

His  purpose  in  visiting  England  was  principally  to  examine 
her  navy-yards,  dockyards,  and  maritime  establishments,  and 
to  acquire  some  practical  knowledge  of  English  naval  archi- 
tecture. He  did  not  design  to  work  in  the  dockyards,  but  he 
preserved  his  incognito,  although  received  with  great  attention 
by  King  William,  who  furthered  all  his  plans  to  the  utmost,  and 
deputed  the  Marquis  of  Caermarthen,  with  whom  the  Czar  be- 
came very  intimate,  to  minister  to  all  his  wants  during  his  resi- 
dence in  England.  He  was  first  lodged  in  York  Buildings ;  but 
afterward,  in  order  to  be  near  the  sea,  he  took  possession  of  a 
house  called  Sayes  Court,  belonging  to  the  celebrated  John 
Evelyn,  "  with  a  back  door  into  the  King's  yard,  at  Deptford  "  ; 
there,  says  an  old  writer,  "  he  would  often  take  up  the  carpenters' 
tools,  and  work  with  them ;  and  he  frequently  conversed  with 
the  builders,  who  showed  him  their  draughts,  and  the  method 
of  laying  down,  by  proportion,  any  ship  or  vessel." 

It  is  amusing  to  observe  the  contempt  with  which  the  servant 
of  the  gentle,  pastoral  Evelyn  writes  to  his  master  concerning 
his  imperial  tenant,  and  the  depredations  and  desecrations  com- 
mitted upon  his  "  most  boscaresque  grounds."  "  There  is  a 
house  full  of  people,"  he  says,  "  right  nasty.  The  Czar  lies  next 
your  library,  and  dines  in  the  parlor  next  your  study.  He  dines 
at  ten  o'clock,  and  six  at  night ;  is  very  seldom  at  home  a  whole 
day ;  very  often  in  the  King's  yard,  or  by  water,  dressed  in 
several  dresses.  The  best  parlor  is  pretty  clean  for  the  King  to 
be  entertained  in."    Moreover,  in  the  garden  at  Sayes  Court, 


3IO 


MOTLEY 


there  was,  to  use  Evelyn's  own  language,  "  a  glorious  and  re- 
freshing object,  an  impregnable  hedge  of  about  four  hundred 
feet  in  length,  nine  feet  high,  and  five  feet  in  diameter,  at  any 
time  of  the  year  glittering  with  its  armed  and  variegated  leaves ; 
the  taller  standards,  at  orderly  distances,  blushing  with  their 
natural  coral  "  ;  and  through  this  "  glorious  and  refreshing 
object "  the  Czar  amused  himself  by  trundling  a  wheelbarrow 
every  morning  for  the  sake  of  the  exercise ! 

He  visited  the  hospitals,  and  examined  most  of  the  public  in- 
stitutions in  England;  and  particularly  directed  his  attention 
toward  acquiring  information  in  engineering,  and  collecting  a 
body  of  skilful  engineers  and  artificers  to  carry  on  the  great 
project  which  he  had  already  matured  of  opening  an  artificial 
communication  by  locks  and  canals  between  the  Volga,  the  Don, 
and  the  Caspian — a  design,  by  the  way,  which  was  denounced 
by  the  clergy  and  nobility  of  his  empire  **  as  a  piece  of  impiety, 
being  to  turn  the  streams  one  way  which  Providence  had  di- 
rected another."  His  evenings  were  generally  spent  with  the 
Marquis  of  Caermarthen,  with  pipes,  beer,  and  brandy,  at  a  tav- 
ern near  Tower  Hill,  which  is  still  called  the  ''  Czar  of  Mus- 
covy." 

During  his  stay  in  England  he  went  to  see  the  University  of 
Oxford,  and  visited  many  of  the  cathedrals  and  churches,  and 
"  had  also  the  curiosity  to  view  the  Quakers  and  other  Dis- 
senters at  their  meeting-houses  in  the  time  of  service."  In  this 
connection  it  is  impossible  not  to  quote  the  egregiously  foolish 
remarks  of  Bishop  Burnet  in  his  "  History  of  His  Own  Times  " : 

"  I  waited  upon  him  often,"  says  the  bishop,  "  and  was  or- 
dered, both  by  the  King  and  the  archbishop,  to  attend  upon 
him  and  to  offer  him  such  information  as  to  our  religion  and 
constitution  as  he  might  be  willing  to  receive.  I  had  good 
interpreters,  so  I  had  much  free  discourse  with  him.  He  is  a 
man  of  a  very  hot  temper,  soon  influenced,  and  very  brutal  in 
his  passion  ;  he  raises  his  natural  heat  by  drinking  much  brandy, 
which  he  rectifies  himself  with  great  application ;  he  is  subject 
to  convulsive  motions  all  over  his  body,  and  his  head  seems  to 
be  affected  with  these.  He  wants  not  capacity,  and  has  a  larger 
measure  of  knowledge  than  might  be  expected  from  his  educa- 
tion, which  was  very  indifferent ;  a  want  of  judgment,  with  an 
instability  of  temper,  appears  in  him  but  too  often  and  too  evi- 


PETER   THE   GREAT 


3" 


dently.  He  is  mechanically  turned,  and  seems  designed  by 
nature  rather  to  be  a  ship-carpenter  than  a  great  prince.  This 
was  his  chief  study  and  exercise  while  he  staid  here;  he 
wrought  much  with  his  own  hands,  and  made  all  about  him  work 
at  the  models  of  ships.  He  told  me  he  designed  a  great  fleet  at 
Azov,  and  with  it  to  attack  the  Turkish  Empire ;  but  he  did  not 
seem  capable  of  conducing  so  great  a  design,  though  his  con- 
duct in  his  wars  since  this  has  discovered  a  greater  genius  in 
him  than  appeared  at  that  time.  He  was  desirous  to  under- 
stand our  doctrine,  but  he  did  not  seem  disposed  to  mend  mat- 
ters in  Muscovy.  He  was,  indeed,  resolved  to  encourage  learn- 
ing and  to  polish  his  people  by  sending  some  of  them  to  travel 
in  other  countries,  and  to  draw  strangers  to  come  and  live  among 
them.  He  seemed  apprehensive  still  of  his  sister's  intrigues. 
There  is  a  mixture  both  of  passion  and  severity  in  his  temper. 
He  is  resolute,  but  understands  little  of  war,  and  seemed  not 
at  all  inquisitive  in  that  way.  After  I  had  seen  him  often,  and 
had  conversed  much  with  him,  I  could  not  but  adore  the  depth 
of  the  providence  of  God,  that  had  raised  up  such  a  furious  man 
to  so  absolute  an  authority  over  so  great  a  part  of  the  world." 

The  complacency  with  which  the  prelate  speaks  of  this  "  furi- 
ous man,"  "  designed  by  nature  rather  to  be  a  ship-carpenter 
than  a  great  prince,"  who  "  did  not  seem  disposed  to  mend  mat- 
ters in  Muscovy,"  is  excessively  ludicrous.  Here  was  a  youth 
of  twenty-five,  who  had  seen  with  a  glance  the  absolute  neces- 
sity of  opening  for  his  empire  a  pathway  to  the  ocean,  and  had 
secured  that  pathway  by  a  blow,  and  who  now,  revolving  in  his 
mind  the  most  daring  schemes  of  conquest  over  martial  neigh- 
bors, and  vast  projects  of  internal  improvement  for  his  domains, 
had  gone  forth  in  mask  and  domino  from  his  barbarous  citadel, 
not  for  a  holiday  pastime,  but  to  acquire  the  arts  of  war  and 
peace,  and,  like  a  modern  Cadmus,  to  transplant  from  older 
regions  the  seeds  of  civilization  to  the  barbarous  wildernesses 
of  his  realm.  Here  was  a  crowned  monarch,  born  in  the  purple, 
and  in  the  very  heyday  of  his  youth,  exchanging  his  diadem 
and  sceptre  for  the  tools  of  a  shipwright,  while  at  the  same  time 
in  his  capacious  brain  his  vast  future  lay  as  clearly  imaged,  and 
his  great  projects  already  to  his  imagination  appeared  as  pal- 
pable as,  long  years  afterward,  when  completed,  they  became  to 
the  observation  of  the  world;    and  yet,  upon  the  whole,  the 


312  MOTLEY 

churchman  thought  him  "  not  disposed  to  mend  matters  in 
Muscovy,"  and  rather  fitted  by  nature  '*  to  be  a  ship-carpenter 
than  a  great  prince." 

The  Czar,  before  his  departure  from  England,  engaged  a 
large  number  of  scientific  persons,  at  the  head  of  whom  was 
Ferguson,  the  engineer,  to  accompany  him  to  Russia,  to  be  em- 
ployed upon  the  various  works  of  internal  improvement  already 
projected.  To  all  these  persons  he  promised  liberal  salaries, 
which  were  never  paid,  and  perfect  liberty  to  depart  when  they 
chose,  "  with  crowns  for  convoy  put  into  their  purse  "  ;  al- 
though, in  the  sequel,  the  poor  devils  never  got  a  ruble  for  their 
pains,  and  those  who  escaped  assassination  by  some  jealous  Rus- 
sian or  other,  and  were  able  to  find  their  way  "  bootless  home, 
and  weather-beaten  back,"  after  a  few  profitless  years  spent 
upon  the  Czar's  sluices  and  bridges,  were  to  be  considered  for- 
tunate. 

One  of  the  disadvantages,  we  suppose,  of  one  man's  owning 
a  whole  quarter  of  the  globe  and  all  its  inhabitants,  is  a  tendency 
to  think  lightly  of  human  obligations.  It  is  useless  to  occupy 
one's  mind  with  engagements  that  no  human  power  can  enforce. 
The  artificers,  being  there,  might  accomplish  their  part  of  the 
Czar's  mission  to  civilize,  or  at  least  to  Europeanize,  Russia. 
This  was  matter  of  consequence  to  the  world;  their  salaries 
were  of  no  importance  to  anybody  but  themselves.  It  is  odd 
that  these  persons  were  the  first  to  introduce  into  Russia  the 
science  of  reckoning  by  Arabic  numerals,  accounts  having  been 
formerly  kept  (and,  indeed,  being  still  kept  by  all  shop-keepers 
and  retail  dealers)  by  means  of  balls  upon  a  string,  as  billiards 
are  marked  in  America.  For  the  Czar  to  have  introduced  an 
improved  method  of  account-keeping  by  means  of  the  very  men 
with  whom  he  intended  to  keep  no  account  at  all  seems  a  super- 
fluous piece  of  irony,  but  so  it  was.  He  had,  however,  a  nicer 
notion  of  what  was  due  from  one  potentate  to  another;  for, 
upon  taking  his  departure  from  England,  he  took  from  his 
breeches-pocket  a  ruby,  wrapped  in  brown  paper,  worth  about 
ten  thousand  pounds,  and  presented  it  to  King  William.  He 
also,  in  return  for  the  agreeable  hours  passed  with  Lord  Caer- 
marthen  at  the  "  Czar  of  Muscovy  "  upon  Tower  Hill,  pre- 
sented that  nobleman  with  the  right  to  license  every  hogshead 
of  tobacco  exported  to  Russia  by  an  English  company  who  had 


PETER   THE   GREAT  313 

paid  him  fifteen  thousand  pounds  for  the  monopoly,  and  to 
charge  five  shilHngs  for  each  Hcense. 

Upon  his  return  through  Vienna,  where  he  was  entertained 
with  great  pomp,  he  received  news  of  an  insurrection  which 
had  broken  out  in  Moscow,  but  which  had  already  been  sup- 
pressed by  the  energy  of  General  Patrick  Gordon.  This  news 
induced  him  to  give  up  his  intended  visit  to  Italy  and  to  has- 
ten back  to  his  capital.  He  found  upon  his  arrival  that  the 
Strelitzes,  who,  instigated  of  course  by  the  Princess  Sophia, 
were  the  authors  of  the  revolt,  had  been  defeated,  and  the  ring- 
leaders imprisoned.  He  immediately  hung  up  three  or  four  of 
them  in  front  of  Sophia's  window,  had  half  a  dozen  more  hung 
and  quartered,  and  a  few  more  broken  upon  the  wheel.  Under 
the  circumstances,  this  was  quite  as  little  as  a  Czar  who  respected 
himself,  and  who  proposed  to  remain  Czar,  could  have  done  by 
way  of  retaliation  upon  a  body  of  men  as  dangerous  as  these 
Strelitzes. 

It  is  not  singular,  however,  that  at  that  day,  when  the  Czar 
of  Muscovy  was  looked  upon  by  western  Europeans  as  an  ogre 
who  habitually  breakfasted  upon  his  subjects,  these  examples  of 
wholesome  severity  were  magnified  into  the  most  improbable 
fables.  Korb,  the  secretary  of  the  Austrian  legation  at  Moscow, 
entertained  his  sovereign  with  minute  details  of  several  ban- 
quets given  by  Peter  to  the  nobility  and  diplomatic  corps,  at 
every  one  of  which  several  dozen  Strelitzes  were  decapitated  in 
the  dining-room.  He  tells  of  one  select  dinner-party  in  particu- 
lar, in  which  the  Czar  chopped  off  the  heads  of  twenty  with  his 
own  hands,  washing  down  each  head  with  a  bumper  of  brandy, 
and  then  obliging  Lefort,  and  several  of  the  judges,  and  some 
of  the  foreign  ministers  to  try  their  hand  at  the  sport.  In  short, 
if  we  could  believe  contemporary  memorialists,  the  Strelitzes 
were  kept  in  preserves  like  pheasants,  and  a  grand  battue  was 
given  once  a  week  by  the  Czar  to  his  particular  friends,  in  which 
he  who  bagged  the  most  game  was  sure  to  recommend  himself 
most  to  the  autocrat.  If  we  were  to  rely  upon  the  general  tone 
of  contemporary  history,  or  to  place  any  credence  in  circum- 
stantial and  statistical  details  of  persons  having  facts  within 
their  reach,  we  should  believe  that  there  never  was  so  much 
fun  in  Moscow  as  while  these  Strelitzes  lasted.  Residents  there 
stated  that  two  thousand  of  them  were  executed  in  all,  including 
those  made  away  with  by  the  Czar  and  the  dilettanti. 


314  MOTLEY 

Perhaps  our  readers  may  think  that  we  are  exaggerating. 
We  can  assure  them  that  the  flippancy  is  not  ours,  but  history's. 
We  should  have  dwelt  less  upon  the  topic  had  not  our  friend  the 
Marquis  de  Custine  reproduced  some  of  these  fables  with  such 
imperturbable  gravity.^ 

At  all  events,  the  Strelitzes  were  entirely  crushed  by  these 
vigorous  measures;  and  from  cutting  off  the  heads  of  the 
janizaries,  the  Czar  now  found  leisure  to  cut  off  the  petticoats 
and  beards  of  his  subjects.  The  great  cause  of  complaint  which 
De  Custine  makes  against  Peter  is  that  he  sought  to  improve 
his  country  by  importing  the  seeds  of  civilization  from  the  older 
countries  of  western  Europe.  He  would  have  preferred  to 
have  had  the  Russians,  being  a  Slavonic  race,  civilized  as  it 
were  Slavonically.  What  this  process  is,  and  where  it  has  been 
successfully  put  into  operation,  he  does  not  inform  us.  As  we 
read  the  history  of  the  world,  it  seems  to  us  that  the  arts  have 
circled  the  earth,  successively  implanting  themselves  in  dif- 
ferent countries  at  different  epochs,  and  producing  different 
varieties  of  intellectual,  moral,  and  physical  fruit,  corresponding 
to  the  myriad  influences  exercised  upon  the  seed.  At  all  events, 
if  Peter  made  a  mistake  in  importing  the  germs  of  ancient  cul- 
ture from  more  favored  lands,  it  was  a  mistake  he  made  in 
common  with  Cadmus,  and  Cecrops,  and  Theseus,  and  other 
semi-fabulous  personages — with  Solon,  and  Lycurgus,  and  Py- 
thagoras, in  less  crepuscular  times. 

Right  or  wrong,  however,  Peter  was  determined  to  occi- 
dentalize  his  empire.  The  darling  wish  of  his  heart  was  to 
place  himself  upon  the  seashore,  in  order  the  more  easily  to  Eu- 

1  On  lit  dans   M,    de   Segur  les   faits  de  chaines,  sont  traines  d'Azoff  a  Mos- 

euivants:  "  Pierre,  lui-meme  a  interroge  cou,  et  leurs  tetes,   qu'un   boyard  tient 

ces   criminels    (les   Strelitz)    par  la  tor-  successivement    par    les    cheveux,    tom- 

ture;  puis  a  Timitation  d'lwan  le  Tyran,  bent  encore  sous  la  hache  du   Czar." — 

lil    se   fait   leur   juge,    leur   bourreau;    il  ("  Histoire   de    Russie    et   de    Pierre   le 

(force   ses   nobles    restes   fideles    a   tran-  Grand,"    par   M.    le   General    Comte   de 

'cher    les    tetes    des    nobles    coupables,  Segur.—"  La    Russie    en    1839,"    par    le 

qu'ils  viennent  de  condamner.    Le  cruel.  Marquis  de  Custine,  i.  306.) 
du  haut  de  son  trone,  assiste  d'un  ceil  "  Mais  tandis  que  ce  grand  precepteur 

sec  a  ces  executions;  il  fait  plus,  il  mele  de    son    peuple    enseignait    si    bien    la 

aux  joies  des  festins  I'horreur  des  sup-  civilite  puerile  aux  boyards  et  aux  mar- 

plices.     Ivre  de  vin  et  de  sang,  le  verre  chands    de    Moscou,    il    s'abaissait    lui- 

d'une  main,  la  hache  de  I'autre,  en  une  meme  a  la  pratique  des  metiers  les  plus 

seule  heure,  vingt  libations  successives  vils,    a    commencer   par   celui    de   bour- 

marquent    la    chute    de    vingt    tetes    de  reau;  on  lui  a  vu  couper  vingt  tetes  de 

Strelitz,  qu'il  abat  a  ses  pieds,  en  s'enor-  sa    main    dans    une    soiree;    et    on^  I'a 

fueillissant    de    son    horrible    adresse.  entendu  se  vanter  de  son  adresse  a  ce 

/annee  d'apres,  le  contre  coup,  soit  du  metier,     qu'il     exerga     avec     une     rare 

soulevement   de   ses   janissaires,   soit   de  ferocite      lorsqu'il      eut      triomphe      des 

I'atrocite   de    leur   supplice,    retentit    au  coupables,  mais  encore  plus  malheureux 

loin  dans  I'empire.   et  d'autres  revoltes  Strelitz,"  etc.— (De  Custine,  iii.  330.) 
eclatent.     Quatre-vingt  Strelitz,  charges 


PETER   THE   GREAT 


315 


ropeanize  his  country.  In  the  mean  time,  and  while  awaiting 
a  good  opportunity  for  the  *'  reannexation  "  of  Ingria,  Esthonia, 
and  Livonia,  provinces  which  had  several  centuries  before  be- 
longed to  the  Russian  crown,  but  had  been  ceded  to  and  pos- 
sessed by  Sweden  for  ages,  he  began  to  denationalize  his  subjects 
by  putting  a  tax  upon  their  beards  and  their  petticoats.  Strange 
to  say,  his  subjects  were  so  much  more  patriotic  than  their  mas- 
ter that  the  tax  became  very  productive.  Peter  increased  his 
revenue,  but  could  not  diminish  the  beards  or  petticoats.  He 
was  obliged  to  resort  to  force,  and  by  "  entertaining  a  score  or 
two  of  tailors  and  barbers  "  at  each  gate  of  Moscow,  whose  busi- 
ness it  was  to  fasten  upon  every  man  who  entered,  and  to  ''  cut 
his  petticoats  all  round  about,"  as  well  as  his  whiskers,  he  at 
last  succeeded  in  humanizing  their  costume — a  process  highly 
offensive,  and  which  caused  the  clergy,  who  naturally  favored 
the  Russian  nationality  upon  which  they  w^ere  fattened,  to  de- 
nounce him  as  Antichrist.  At  the  same  time  he  altered  the 
commencement  of  the  year  from  the  first  of  September  to  the 
first  of  January,  much  to  the  astonishment  of  his  subjects,  who 
wondered  that  the  Czar  could  change  the  course  of  the  sun. 
He  also  instituted  assemblies  for  the  encouragement  of  social 
intercourse  between  the  sexes.  But  his  most  important  under- 
takings were  the  building,  under  his  immediate  superintendence, 
assisted  by  the  English  officers  whom  he  had  brought  with  him, 
of  a  large  fleet  upon  the  Don,  and  the  junction  of  that  river  with 
the  Volga.  About  this  time  he  met  with  an  irreparable  loss  in 
the  death  of  Lefort,  who  perished  at  the  early  age  of  forty-six. 
Peter  was  profoundly  afflicted  by  this  event,  and  honored  his 
remains  with  magnificent  obsequies. 

Both  coasts  of  the  Gulf  of  Finland,  together  with  both  banks 
of  the  river  Neva,  up  to  the  lake  Ladoga,  had  been  long  and 
were  still  in  possession  of  the  Swedes.  These  frozen  morasses 
were  not  a  tempting  site  for  a  metropolis,  certainly ;  particularly 
when  they  happened  to  be  in  the  possession  of  the  most  warlike 
nation  of  Europe,  governed  by  the  most  warlike  monarch,  as  the 
sequel  proved,  that  had  ever  sat  upon  its  throne.  Still,  Peter 
had  determined  to  take  possession  of  that  coast,  and  already  in 
imagination  had  built  his  capital  upon  those  dreary  solitudes, 
peopled  only  by  the  elk,  the  wolf,  and  the  bear.  This  man,  more 
than  anyone  perhaps  that  ever  lived,  was  an  illustration  of  the 


3i6  MOTLEY 

power  of  volition.  He  always  settled  in  his  own  mind  exactly 
what  he  wanted,  and  then  put  on  his  wishing-cap.  With  him 
to  will  was  to  have.  Obstacles  he  took  as  a  matter  of  course. 
It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  him  to  doubt  the  accomplishment  of 
his  purpose.  For  our  own  part  we  do  not  admire  the  capital 
which  he  built,  nor  the  place  he  selected ;  both  are  mistakes,  in 
our  humble  opinion,  as  time  will  prove  and  is  proving.  But  it  is 
impossible  not  to  admire  such  a  masterly  effort  of  human  voli- 
tion as  the  erection  of  Petersburg. 

In  the  year  1700  was  formed  the  alliance  between  Augustus 
the  Strong,  Elector  of  Saxony  and  King  of  Poland,  the  King  of 
Denmark,  and  the  Czar  Peter,  against  Charles  XII,  King  of 
Sweden,  then  a  boy  of  eighteen,  of  whose  character  nothing  was 
known,  and  who,  it  was  thought  probable,  might  be  bullied. 
The  Czar,  as  we  know,  desired  Ingria  and  Carelia.  Augustus 
wished  to  regain  Esthonia  and  Livonia,  ceded  by  Poland  to 
Charles  XI  of  Sweden ;  and  Denmark  wished  to  recover  Holstein 
and  Schleswig.  It  soon  appeared  that  the  allied  sovereigns  had 
got  hold  of  the  wrong  man.  Charles  XII,  to  the  astonishment 
of  his  own  court  no  less  than  of  his  enemies,  in  one  instant  blazed 
forth  a  hero.  He  "  smote  the  sledded  Polack,"  to  begin  with ; 
then  defeated  the  Danes ;  and,  having  thus  despatched  his  two 
most  formidable  enemies  in  appearance,  he  was  at  leisure  to  de- 
vote his  whole  attention  to  the  Czar,  whom,  however,  he  treated 
with  the  contempt  which  a  thoroughbred  soldier,  at  the  head  of 
tried  and  disciplined  troops,  naturally  felt  for  the  barbarous 
autocrat  of  barbarous  hordes. 

Peter,  however,  who  knew  nothing  of  war  but  in  theory,  with 
the  exception  of  his  maiden  campaign  of  Azov,  went  manfully 
forward  to  the  encounter.  He  invaded  Ingria  at  the  head  of 
sixty  thousand  men;  and  wishing,  like  Andrew  Aguecheek,  to 
"  keep  on  the  windy  side  of  the  law,"  and  to  save  appearances,  he 
defended  his  invasion  by  the  ludicrous  pretext  that  his  ambas- 
sadors had  been  charged  exorbitant  prices  for  provisions  on 
their  tour  through  the  Swedish  provinces  to  Holland,  and  that 
he  himself  had  been  denied  a  sight  of  the  citadel  at  Riga.  Not 
that  he  wanted  Riga  himself,  or  Ingria,  or  Livonia — "  Oh,  no, 
not  at  all  " — but  the  preposterous  charges  made  by  the  butchers 
and  bakers  of  Ingria  were  insults  which  could  only  be  washed 
out  in  blood.     On  September  20th  he  laid  siege  to  Narva,  a 


PETER  THE   GREAT 


317 


strongly  fortified  town  on  the  river  Narowa.  On  November 
19th,  Charles  XII  fell  upon  Peter's  army  during  a  tremendous 
snow-storm,  which  blew  directly  in  their  teeth,  and  with  nine 
thousand  soldiers  completely  routed  and  cut  to  pieces  or  cap- 
tured about  sixty  thousand  Russians.  Never  was  a  more  igno- 
minious defeat.  The  Russians  were  slaughtered  like  sheep,  and 
their  long  petticoats  prevented  the  survivors  from  running  away 
half  as  fast  as  they  wished.  The  consequence  was  that,  accord- 
ing to  the  Swedish  accounts,  the  prisoners  four  times  outnum- 
bered the  whole  Swedish  army. 

One  would  have  thought  that  this  would  have  settled  the  Czar 
for  a  little  while,  and  kept  him  quiet  and  reasonable.  It  did  so. 
He  preserved  the  most  imperturbable  sang  froid  after  his  re- 
turn to  Moscow,  and  devoted  himself  with  more  zeal  than  ever 
to  the  junction  of  the  Baltic  and  the  Euxine,  just  at  the  moment 
when  the  former  seemed  farthest  from  him,  and  when  a  com- 
mon man  would  have  been  "  qualmish  at  the  name  "  of  Baltic. 
At  the  same  time,  reversing  the  commonplace  doctrine,  he  con- 
tinues in  war  to  prepare  for  peace — with  one  hand  importing 
sheep  from  Saxony,  erecting  linen  and  paper  factories,  building 
hospitals  and  founding  schools,  while  with  the  other  he  melts 
all  the  church  and  convent  bells  in  Moscow  into  cannon,  and 
makes  every  preparation  for  a  vigorous  campaign  the  ensuing 
season.  He  had  not  the  slightest  suspicion  that  he  was  beaten. 
He  was,  in  fact,  one  of  those  intellectual  Titans  who  never  feel 
their  strength  till  they  have  been  fairly  struck  to  the  earth.  "  I 
know  very  well,"  he  says  in  his  journal,  "  that  the  Swedes  will 
have  the  advantage  of  us  for  a  considerable  time ;  but  they  will 
teach  us  at  length  to  beat  them."  And  at  a  later  period  he  says : 
"  If  we  had  obtained  a  victory  over  the  Swedes  at  Narva,  being, 
as  we  were,  so  little  instructed  in  the  arts  of  war  and  policy,  into 
what  an  abyss  might  not  this  good  fortune  have  sunk  us !  On 
the  contrary,  the  success  of  the  Swedes  cost  them  very  dear 
afterward  at  Pultowa." 

In  the  following  spring  his  troops  obtained  some  trifling  suc- 
cesses, and  General  Scherematoif  made  the  memorable  capture 
of  Marienburg,  in  Livonia,  memorable  not  so  much  in  a  military 
point  of  view^  as  on  account  of  a  young  and  pretty  Livonian  girl 
who  was  captured  with  the  town.  This  young  woman,  whose 
Christian  name  was  Martha,  without  any  patronymic,  or  any  at 


3i8  MOTLEY 

least  that  has  been  preserved,  was  born  near  Dorpt,  and  had 
been  educated  by  one  Dr.  Gkick,  a  Lutheran  minister  at  Marien- 
burg,  who  pronounced  her  a  "  pattern  of  virtue,  intelHgence, 
and  good  conduct " ;  she  had  been  married  the  day  before  the 
battle  of  Marienburg  to  a  Swedish  sergeant,  who  fell  in  the 
action,  and  she  now  found  herself  alone,  a  friendless,  helpless 
widow  and  orphan  of  sixteen,  exposed  without  any  protector  to 
all  the  horrors  of  a  besieged  and  captured  town. 

If  a  writer  of  fiction,  with  a  brain  fertile  in  extravagant  and 
incredible  romance,  had  chosen  to  describe  to  us  this  young 
peasant-girl,  weeping  half  distracted  among  the  smoking  ruins 
of  an  obscure  provincial  town,  and  then,  after  rapidly  shifting 
a  few  brilliant  and  tumultuous  scenes  in  his  phantasmagoria,  had 
presented  to  us  the  same  orphan  girl  as  a  crowned  empress, 
throned  upon  a  quarter  of  the  world,  and  the  sole  arbitress  and 
autocrat  of  thirty  millions  of  human  beings,  and  all  this  with- 
out any  discovery  of  a  concealed  origin,  without  crime  and  with- 
out witchcraft,  with  nothing  supernatural  in  the  machinery,  and 
nothing  intricate  in  the  plot — should  we  not  all  have  smiled  at 
his  absurdity?  And  yet,  this  captive  girl  became  the  consort 
of  the  Czar  Peter,  and  upon  his  death  the  Empress  of  all  the 
Russias.  The  Russian  General  Bauer  saw  her,  and  rescued 
her  from  the  dangers  of  the  siege.  She  afterward  became  the 
mistress  of  Menshikoff,  with  whom  she  lived  till  1704,  when,  in 
the  seventeenth  year  of  her  age,  the  Czar  saw  her,  was  capti- 
vated by  her  beauty,  and  took  her  for  his  mistress,  and  afterward 
privately,  and  then  publicly,  married  her. 

It  is  to  this  epoch  that  belongs  the  abolition  of  the  patriarchal 
dignity  in  Russia.  Peter,  having  at  a  blow  destroyed  the 
Strelitzes,  had  long  intended  to  annihilate  the  ecclesiastical 
power,  the  only  balance  which  existed  in  the  country  to  the 
autocracy  of  the  sovereign.  The  superstition  of  the  Russians 
was  and  is  unbounded.  Their  principal  saint  was  Saint  An- 
thony, who,  says  a  quaint  old  author,  "  came  all  the  way  from 
Rome  to  Novgorod  by  water  on  a  millstone,  sailing  down  the 
Tiber  to  Civita  Vecchia,  from  thence  passing  through  several 
seas  to  the  mouth  of  the  Neva,  then  went  up  that,  and,  crossing 
the  lake  Ladoga  into  the  Volkhoff,  arrived  at  the  city  before 
named.  Besides  this  extraordinary  voyage,  he  wrought  several 
other  miracles  as  soon  as  he  landed  where  the  monastery  now 


PETER  THE  GREAT 


319 


stands  that  is  dedicated  to  him ;  one  was,  to  order  a  company 
of  fishermen  to  cast  their  nets  into  the  sea ;  which  having  done, 
they  immediately  drew  up,  with  a  great  quantity  of  fish,  a  large 
trunk  containing  several  church  ornaments,  sacred  utensils,  and 
priestly  vestments  for  celebrating  the  liturgy,  which  the  Rus- 
sians, as  well  as  the  Eastern  Greeks,  believe  was  first  performed 
at  Rome  in  the  same  manner  and  with  the  same  ceremonies  as 
they  themselves  use  at  this  time.  The  people  tell  you  further 
that  he  built  himself  a  little  cell,  in  which  he  ended  his  days. 
In  this  place  there  now  stands  a  chapel,  in  which  they  say  he 
was  buried,  and  that  his  body  remains  as  uncorrupted  as  at  the 
instant  of  his  death.  Over  the  door  of  the  cell  the  monks  show  a 
millstone,  which  they  endeavor  to  make  the  ignorant  people  be- 
lieve is  the  very  same  that  the  saint  sailed  upon  from  Rome, 
and  to  which  great  devotions  were  once  paid,  and  many  offer- 
ings made  till  the  time  Peter  the  Great  made  himself  sovereign 
pontiff." 

To  this  saint,  or  to  Saint  Nicholas,  we  forget  which,  letters  of 
introduction  were  always  addressed  by  the  priests,  and  placed 
in  the  hands  of  the  dead  when  laid  in  their  cofiins.  The  super- 
stition of  the  Russians  is  grosser  and  more  puerile  than  that  of 
any  people  purporting  to  be  Christians.  They  would  rather 
starve  than  eat  pigeons,  because  the  Holy  Ghost  assumed  the 
form  of  a  dove ;  they  dip  their  new-born  children  into  the  Neva 
in  January,  through  holes  cut  in  the  ice,  directly  after  the  cere- 
mony of  blessing  the  water  has  been  concluded  by  the  patriarch ; 
and  it  would  be  an  easy  but  endless  task  to  enumerate  other 
similar  absurdities.  It  may  be  supposed  that  the  p^riarchal 
dignity,  founded  upon  superstition  as  solid  as  this,  would  be  a 
difficult  power  to  contend  with.  It  was  so.  The  patriarch's 
power  was  enormous.  He  pronounced  sentence  of  life,  and 
death,  and  torture,  without  intervention  of  any  tribunal.  On 
Palm  Sunday  he  rode  to  church  upon  an  ass  "  caparisoned  in 
white  linen,"  at  the  head  of  a  long  procession  of  ecclesiastical 
and  civil  dignitaries,  with  a  mitre  upon  his  head,  and  "  skirts  of 
many  colors,  three  or  four  ells  long,"  borne  by  a  band  of  young 
men,  while  the  Czar  walked  uncovered  by  his  side,  holding  the 
bridle  of  the  beast  upon  his  arm. 

This  dignity,  which  had  been  established  by  a  sort  of  acci- 
dent in  the  year  1588,  up  to  which  time  the  Russian  Church 


320  MOTLEY 

acknowledged  the  supremacy  of  the  Patriarch  of  Constantinople, 
had  grown  to  be  very  distasteful  to  Peter.  The  Church  was  the 
greatest  possible  enemy  to  his  plans  of  reformation.  The  bigotry 
of  its  opposition  to  all  his  projects  was  insurmountable.  Be- 
sides, it  was  very  inconvenient  that  anyone  should  have  any 
power  or  any  rights  except  himself.  He  determined  to  anni- 
hilate the  office  of  patriarch,  and  to  place  himself  at  the  head  of 
the  Church.  We  do  not  find,  however,  that  he  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  go  through  an  apprenticeship  in  this  profession,  as  He 
had  done  in  others ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  upon  the  death  of  the 
Patriarch  Adrian,  which  happened  about  this  time,  he  simply 
appointed  himself  pontifex  maxnnus,  and  declined  nominating 
any  other  patriarch.  The  man  who  had  destroyed  the  janizaries, 
cut  off  the  beards  of  his  subjects,  and  changed  the  course  of 
the  sun,  was  also  strong  enough  to  trample  the  prelate's  mitre  in 
the  dust.  He  was  entirely  successful  in  his  contest  with  the 
Church.  The  clergy  made  but  a  feeble  resistance.  The  print- 
ing-press, to  be  sure,  which  he  had  first  introduced  into  Russia, 
swarmed  with  libels  upon  him,  and  denounced  him  as  Antichrist ; 
but  he  was  defended  by  others  of  the  clergy,  "  because  the  num- 
ber six  hundred  and  sixty-six  was  not  found  in  his  name,  and 
he  had  not  the  sign  of  the  beast." 

Before  the  close  of  the  year  1702  the  troops  of  the  Czar  had 
driven  the  Swedes  from  the  Ladoga  and  the  Neva,  and  had 
taken  possession  of  all  the  ports  in  Carelia  and  Ingria.  On 
May  1 6th,  without  waiting  another  moment  after  having  pos- 
sessed himself  of  the  locality,  he  begins  to  build  his  metropolis. 
One  hundred  thousand  miserable  workmen  are  consumed  in  the 
first  twelve  months,  succumbing  to  the  rigorous  climate  and  the 
unhealthy  position.  But  "  il  faiit  casser  des  ceufs  pour  faire  une 
omelette  " ;  in  one  year's  time  there  are  thirty  thousand  houses 
in  Petersburg.  Never  was  there  such  a  splendid  improvisation. 
Look  for  a  moment  at  a  map  of  Russia  and  say  if  Petersburg  was 
not  a  magnificent  piece  of  volition — a  mistake,  certainly,  and  an 
extensive  one — but  still  a  magnificent  mistake.  Upon  a  delta, 
formed  by  the  dividing  branches  of  the  Neva — upon  a  miserable 
morass  half  under  water,  without  stones,  without  clay,  without 
earth,  without  wood,  without  building  materials  of  any  kind — 
having  behind  it  the  outlet  of  the  lake  Ladoga  and  its  tributary 
swamps,  and  before  it  the  Gulf  of  Finland  contracting  itself  into 


t*ETER  THE   GREAT  321 

a  narrow  compass,  and  ready  to  deluge  it  with  all  the  waters  of 
the  Baltic  whenever  the  southwest  wind  should  blow  a  gale  eight 
and  forty  hours — with  a  climate  of  polar  severity,  and  a  soil 
as  barren  as  an  iceberg — was  not  Petersburg  a  bold  impromptu? 
We  never  could  look  at  this  capital,  with  its  imposing  though 
monotonous  architecture,  its  colossal  squares,  its  vast  colon- 
nades, its  endless  vistas,  its  spires  and  minarets  sheathed  in  bar- 
baric gold  and  flashing  in  the  sun,  and  remember  the  magical 
rapidity  with  which  it  was  built,  and  the  hundred  thousand  lives 
that  were  sacrificed  in  building  it,  without  recalling  MiltOD.s 
description  of  the  building  of  Pandemonium : 

"  Anon  out  of  the  earth  a  fabric  huge 
Rose  like  an  exhalation,     .    .     . 
Built  like  a  temple,  where  pilasters  round 
Were  set,  and  Doric  pillars  overlaid 
With  golden  architrave ;   nor  did  there  want 
Cornice  or  frieze,  with  bossy  sculptures  graven; 
The  roof  was  fretted  gold.     Not  Babylon 
Nor  great  Alcairo  such  magnificence 
Equalled  in  all  their  glories,  to  enshrine 
Belus  or  Serapis  their  gods,  or  seat 
Their  kings,  when  Egypt  with  Assyria  strove 
In  wealth  and  luxury.     The  ascending  pile 
Stood  fixed  her  stately  height ;   and  straight  the  doors 
Opening  their  brazen  folds  discover,  wide 
Within,  her  ample  spaces  o'er  the  smooth 
And  level  pavement." 

Within  a  few  months  after  the  foundation  of  Petersburg  and 
Cronstadt,  Peter  had  the  pleasure  of  piloting  into  his  new  sea- 
port with  his  own  hands  a  vessel  belonging  to  his  old  friend  Cor- 
nelius Calf,  of  Saardam.  The  transfer  of  the  seat  of  govern- 
ment, by  the  removal  of  the  Senate  from  Moscow  to  Petersburg, 
was  effected  a  few  years  afterward.  Since  that  time  the  repudi- 
ated Oriental  capital  of  the  ancient  Czars,  the  magnificent  Mos- 
cow, with  her  golden  tiara  and  her  Eastern  robe,  has  sat,  like 
Hagar  in  the  wilderness,  deserted  and  lonely  in  all  her  barbarian 
beauty.  Yet  even  now,  in  many  a  backward  look  and  longing 
sigh  she  reads  plainly  enough  that  she  is  not  forgotten  by  her 
sovereign,  that  she  is  still  at  heart  preferred,  and  that  she  will 
eventually  triumph  over  her  usurping  and  artificial  rival. 

The  building  of  Petersburg  in  a  year  was,  however,  a  mere 
21 


322 


MOTLEY 


aside  in  the  great  military  drama  that  was  going  on.  Peter 
founded  this  city  as  soon  as  he  had  won  a  place  for  it ;  but  the 
war  still  went  on.  While  the  Czar  was  erecting  his  capital,  es- 
tablishing woollen  manufactures,  and  importing  sheep  from 
Saxony,  Charles  XII  was  knocking  the  Elector  of  Saxony  off 
the  Polish  throne,  putting  Stanislaus  Leckzinsky  in  his  place, 
and  ravaging  all  Poland  and  Saxony.  The  scenes  of  the  great 
drama  which  occupied  the  next  few  years,  but  which  we  have 
no  intention  of  sketching,  opened  in  Poland,  and  closed  on  the 
confines  of  Turkey.  It  is  a  magnificent,  eventful,  important 
drama,  a  chapter  of  history  which  has  been  often  written  and 
is  familiar  to  almost  everyone,  and  yet  which  would  well  bear 
handling  again.  There  is  no  life  of  Peter  which  is  in  all  re- 
spects satisfactory,  which  does  not  partake  too  much  of  eulogi- 
um  or  censure  in  its  estimation  of  his  character;  and  there  is 
none  which  develops  with  sufficient  accuracy  and  impartiality, 
and  in  a  sufficiently  striking  manner,  the  stirring  events  of  the 
great  Northern  war.  The  brilliant  drama  enacted  in  the  first 
fifteen  years  of  the  present  century — forming  probably  the  most 
splendid  chapter  in  the  military  history  of  the  world,  and  which 
is  still  so  fresh  in  the  minds  of  men — has  thrown  into  compara- 
tive oblivion  the  very  picturesque  and  imposing  scenes  which 
were  displayed  in  the  first  fifteen  years  of  the  eighteenth.  And 
yet  what  a  magnificent  subject  for  the  historical  painter,  what 
imposing  personages,  what  dramatic  catastrophes,  what  sudden 
and  bewildering  reverses,  what  wild  scenery,  what  Salvator- 
like  chiaroscuro — dark  Sarmatian  forests  enveloping  the  actors 
in  mystery  and  obscurity,  with  flashes  of  light  breaking  upon  the 
anxious  suspense  of  Europe,  and  revealing  portentous  battles, 
sieges,  and  hair-breadth  escapes — what  "  dreadful  marches  " 
through  the  wilderness,  what  pitched  combats,  upon  whose 
doubtful  result  hinged,  as  almost  never  before  or  since,  the  weal 
or  woe  of  millions,  and  in  which  kings  fought  sword  in  hand  in 
the  hottest  of  the  fight,  with  their  crowns  staked  upon  the  issue ! 
There  was  always  something  very  exciting  to  our  imagination 
in  the  characters  of  the  three  kings  who  were  the  principal  actors 
in  the  Northern  war.  There  seemed  to  be  a  strange,  fitful,  myth- 
ical character  about  the  war  and  the  men  who  waged  it.  The 
Elector  Augustus  of  Saxony,  King  of  Poland,  with  his  super- 
human and  almost   fabulous  physical  strength,  his  personal 


PETER  THE  GREAT  323 

bravery,  his  showy,  chivalrous  character,  his  world-renowned 
adventures  in  a  gentler  field,  familiar  to  posterity  through  the 
records  of  ''  La  Saxe  galante"  is  a  striking  personage.  It  is 
astonishing  that  such  a  magnificent  Lothario  should  have  chosen, 
for  the  barren  honor  of  being  elected  to  the  Polish  throne,  to  ex- 
change the  brilliant  and  voluptuous  gayety  of  his  own  court  for 
"  the  bloody  noses  and  cracked  crowns  "  which  were  "  passing 
current  "  in  Poland.  But  it  is  still  more  astonishing  that,  having 
once  engaged  in  the  affair,  he  should  have  cut  such  a  miserable 
figure  in  it.  The  splendid  Augustus,  Augustus  the  Strong,  Au- 
gustus the  Gallant,  became  merely  the  anvil  for  the  sledge-ham- 
mers of  Charles  and  Peter.  He  made  a  fool  of  himself ;  he  dis- 
graced himself  more  than  it  seemed  possible  for  a  human  being 
to  disgrace  himself;  he  humiliated  himself  more  completely, 
more  stupidly,  because  more  unnecessarily,  than  it  seemed  pos- 
sible for  the  greatest  idiot,  as  well  as  the  most  arrant  coward, 
to  humiliate  himself.  He  lost  his  crown  at  the  very  start,  went 
down  on  his  knees  in  the  dirt  to  pick  it  up  again,  made  a  secret 
treaty  with  Charles,  renouncing  his  alliance  with  the  Czar,  de- 
serted his  ally  with  incredible  folly  just  as  the  Russians  in  con- 
junction with  his  own  troops  were  gaining  a  brilliant  victory 
and  entering  Warsaw  in  triumph,  concealed  his  shameful  ne- 
gotiation from  his  own  generals,  while  at  the  same  time  he 
wrote  a  letter  to  Charles,  apologizing  for  having  gained  a  vic- 
tory, and  assuring  him  that  he  had  intended  to  have  drawn  off 
his  troops  and  deserted  to  the  enemy,  but  that  his  orders  had 
not  been  obeyed,  and  then  sneaked  off  to  Charles's  camp,  where, 
in  obedience  to  that  monarch's  orders,  he  capped  the  climax  of 
his  shame  by  writing  a  letter  of  sincere  and  humble  congratula- 
tion to  Stanislaus  Leckzinsky  for  supplanting  him  upon  his  own 
throne.  Peter,  in  the  sequel,  put  his  crown  on  his  head  again,  to 
be  sure ;  but  forever  after  he  looked  like 

"...    the  thief, 
Who  from  the  shelf  the  precious  diadem  stole, 
And  put  it  in  his  pocket." 

What  a  pity  that  this  man,  who  was  deficient  neither  in  courage 
nor,  we  suppose,  in  a  certain  amount  of  intellect  sufficient  for  all 
ordinary  purposes,  should  have  got  himself  into  such  a  scrape 
merely  for  the  sake  of  carrying  an  election  over  the  Prince  of 


324  MOTLEY 

Conti  and  Stanislaus !  The  truth  was  that,  the  moment  he  got 
among  giants — giants  in  action,  like  Charles  and  Peter — he 
showed  himself  the  pygmy  he  was  in  mind,  despite  his  stature, 
his  strength,  and  his  personal  bravery. 

And  Charles  XII,  the  hero,  the  crowned  gladiator — what 
had  he  to  do  with  the  eighteenth  century  ?  The  hero  of  every- 
body's boyhood,  he  remains  a  puzzle  and  a  mystery  to  us  in 
our  maturer  years.  He  seems  an  impossibility  in  the  times  in 
which  he  lived.  On  the  death  of  Charles  XI,  and  the  com- 
mencement of  the  hostile  movement  by  Russia  and  Denmark, 
the  stripling  sovereign  seems  to  dilate  into  the  vast,  shadowy 
proportions  of  some  ancient  hero  of  Scandinavian  Sagas.  He 
seems  like  one  of  the  ancient  Norsemen,  whose  vocation  was 
simply  to  fight — who  conquered  the  whole  earth,  not  because 
they  wanted  it,  but  because  they  were  sent  into  the  world  for  no 
other  earthly  purpose;  a  legitimate  representative  of  the  old 
Sea-Kings,  or  rather  an  ancient  Sea-King  himself,  reappearing 
in  the  eighteenth  century,  with  no  specially  defined  object,  and 
proposing  to  himself  no  particular  business  in  the  world  which 
he  had  so  suddenly  revisited,  but  to  fight  as  much  as  possible, 
and  with  anybody  that  came  along.  Viewed  in  this  light,  he  can 
be  judged  more  justly.  He  was  out  of  place  where  he  was.  He 
would  have  been  a  magnificent  hero  and  a  useful  personage  six 
or  seven  hundred  years  earlier.  He  was  a  very  mischievous 
character  in  the  eighteenth  century.  People  no  longer  fought 
in  the  same  way  as  before ;  they  no  longer  fought  for  the  fun 
of  it ;  they  now  had  always  an  object  in  their  wars.  Sovereigns, 
however  belligerent  in  taste,  had  always  an  eye  to  their  interest. 
This  was  preeminently  the  case  with  his  great  antagonist,  Peter. 
He  never  fought  except  for  an  object ;  but,  sooner  than  relin- 
quish the  object,  he  would  have  fought  till ''  sun  and  moon  were 
in  the  flat  sea  sunk."  He  was  a  creator,  a  founder,  a  lawgiver, 
as  well  as  a  warrior.  He  was  constructive ;  Charles  merely  de- 
structive. The  Czar  was  a.  great  statesman ;  Charles  only  a 
great  gladiator.  In  war,  Peter  was  always  preparing  for  peace ; 
as  for  Charles,  after  he  first  started  upon  his  career,  he  never 
seemed  to  have  had  the  faintest  suspicion  that  there  was  such 
a  thing,  such  a  status,  as  peace.  He  came  into  the  world  to 
fight,  and  he  fought;  he  lived  fighting,  he  died  fighting.  He 
poured  himself  out,  like  a  fierce  torrent  from  his  native  moun- 


PETER  THE   GREAT 


325 


tains,  in  one  wild,  headlong,  devastating  flood.  There  was 
nothing  beneficent,  nothing  fertilizing,  in  his  career.  His  king- 
dom was  neglected,  his  treasury  exhausted,  his  subjects  im- 
poverished ;  while  he  himself,  from  the  admiration  and  wonder 
of  Europe,  became,  or  would  have  become,  but  for  his  timely 
death,  its  laughing-stock.  The  hero  at  Narva  was  only  Bom- 
bastes  Furioso  at  Bender. 

While  Charles  was  deposing  Augustus  and  crowning  Stanis- 
laus, the  troops  of  Peter  were  not  idle.  Keeping  his  eye  ever 
fixed  upon  his  great  object,  the  Czar  was  adding  to  his  domain 
province  after  province  of  what  was  then  the  Swedish  seacoast. 
Dorpt  and  Narva  are  captured,  and  with  them  all  Ingria,  of 
which  Peter  makes  the  pastry-cook's  apprentice  governor. 
Courland  soon  follows,  and  now  the  Czar  joins  his  forces  to 
those  of  Augustus  in  Poland.  While  he  is  called  off  to  quell  an 
insurrection  in  Astrakhan  (distances  are  nothing  to  the  Czar), 
Augustus  seizes  the  opportunity  to  make  the  ignominious  com- 
pact with  the  Swedish  king  to  which  we  have  referred,  and — 
most  shameful  and  perfidious  part  of  his  treason — surrenders 
to  the  vengeance  of  the  ferocious  Charles,  to  the  torture  and  the 
wheel,  the  unfortunate  General  Patkul,  ambassador  of  the  Czar 
at  the  court  of  Augustus,  who  had  incurred  the  hatred  of  the 
Swedish  monarch  for  heading  a  deputation  of  Livonian  nobles, 
and  presenting  to  him  a  petition  concerning  the  rights  and 
privileges  of  their  province.  The  allies  of  King  Augustus  take 
possession  of  Warsaw,  while  King  Augustus  himself  is  writing 
his  congratulations  to  King  Stanislaus. 

Peter,  having  helped  himself  to  almost  as  many  Swedish 
provinces  as  he  cared  for,  while  Charles  has  been  bullying  Au- 
gustus and  breaking  Patkul  on  the  wheel,  is  now  disposed  to 
treat  for  peace.  The  French  envoy  at  Dresden  offers  his  ser- 
vices, but  Charles  declines  treating  except  at  Moscow.  "  My 
brother  Charles  wishes  to  act  Alexander,"  says  the  Czar ;  "  but 
he  shall  not  find  me  Darius." 

Peter  now  conceives  almost  exactly  the  same  plan  by  which 
the  conqueror  of  the  nineteenth  century  was  entrapped  and  de- 
stroyed. He  makes  his  country  and  climate  fight  for  him,  and 
retreats  slowly  before  his  advancing  enemy,  drawing  him  on  step 
by  step  to  a  barren  country,  whence  he  could  have  no  retreat,  and 
where  Peter  could  suddenly  advance  from  his  own  secure  posi- 


MOTLEY 

tion  and  overwhelm  him  at  a  blow.  With  masterly  generalsmp 
he  retreats  before  his  hot-headed  adversary,  still  ''  tempting  him 
to  the  desert  with  his  sword,"  marches  to  Mohilev  and  Orsha 
on  the  eastern  bank  of  the  Dnieper,  a  position  in  free  communica- 
tion with  Smolensk,  sends  his  Cossacks  to  lay  waste  the  country 
for  thirty  miles  round,  and  then  orders  them  to  join  him  beyond 
the  Borysthenes.  The  two  Northern  monarchs  now  disappear 
from  the  eyes  of  anxious  Europe  among  the  wildernesses  of 
ancient  Scythia.  Peter,  with  a  hundred  thousand  men  well  pro- 
vided and  in  convenient  communication  with  his  own  cities  and 
magazines,  remains  quiet.  Charles,  intent  upon  dictating  terms 
at  Moscow,  crosses  the  Borysthenes  with  eighty  thousand  men. 
A  fierce  battle  without  results  is  fought  on  the  Beresina.  Charles 
pushes  on  to  Smolensk.  By  order  of  Peter  the  country  between 
the  Borysthenes  and  Smolensk  had  been  laid  waste.  At  the 
approach  of  winter  the  Swedish  army  dwindles  and  wastes 
away  beneath  the  horrors  of  the  iron  climate.  Still  Charles 
advances,  when  suddenly,  and  to  the  Czar  inexplicably,  he  turns 
aside  from  his  path,  abandons  his  design  upon  Moscow,  and 
directs  his  steps  to  the  Ukraine.  The  mystery  is  solved  by  the 
news  of  Mazeppa's  treason.  The  old  Hetman  of  the  Cossacks 
deserts  to  Charles,  promising-  to  bring  over  all  his  troops :  he 
brings  no  one  but  himself;  the  Cossacks  scorn  his  treachery, 
and  remain  faithful  to  their  Czar. 

By  this  time  it  was  December,  the  cold  intense,  and  the 
Swedish  army  perishing  by  thousands ;  Count  Piper  implores 
his  master  to  halt  and  go  into  the  best  winter-quarters  they 
could  find  in  the  Ukraine.  The  King  refuses,  resolved  to  reduce 
the  Ukraine,  and  then  march  to  Moscow.  In  the  month  of  May, 
after  a  winter  spent  by  the  Czar's  forces  in  comfortable  quar- 
ters and  by  the  King's  exposed  to  all  kinds  of  misery,  Charles 
lays  siege  to  Pultowa  with  eighteen  thousand  men,  the  remnant 
of  his  eighty  thousand.  On  June  15,  1709,  the  Czar  appears 
before  Pultowa,  and,  by  feint  of  attack  upon  the  Swedes,  suc- 
ceeds in  throwing  two  thousand  men  into  the  place,  and  at 
length,  a  few  days  after,  gives  him  battle  and  utterly  routs  and 
destroys  his  army.  Both  the  King  and  the  Czar,  throughout 
this 

** .    .    .    dread  Pultowa' s  day, 
When  fortune  left  the  royal  Swede," 


PETER  THE   GREAT  327 

fight  in  the  front  of  the  battle.  Several  balls  pierce  the  Czar's 
clothes ;  while  Charles,  having  been  previously  wounded  in  the 
heel,  is  carried  through  the  fight  upon  a  litter.  After  the  total 
overthrow  of  his  army  Charles  escapes  on  horseback  with  a 
handful  of  followers,  and,  entering  the  confines  of  Turkey,  halts 
at  Bender  on  the  Dniester. 

The  battle  of  Pultowa  and  the  final  overthrow  of  Charles 
are  followed  during  the  autumn  and  winter  by  the  complete  con- 
quest of  Livonia — Viborg,  Elbing,  Riga,  and  Revel  being  taken 
early  in  17 10.  At  the  same  time  Peter  deposes  Stanislaus  and 
restores  the  illustrious  Augustus. 

In  the  mean  time  Charles  remains  at  Bender,  the  stipendiary 
of  the  Sultan,  while  Poniatowski,  his  emissary  at  the  Porte, 
is  busily  intriguing  to  bring  about  a  declaration  of  war  from 
Turkey  against  the  Czar.  In  conjunction  with  the  Khan  of  the 
Crimean  Tartars,  who  appeals  to  the  Sultan's  jealousy  of  the 
increasing  power  of  Russia,  and  inspires  him  with  a  desire  to 
recover  Azov  and  expel  his  encroaching  neighbors  from  the 
Black  Sea,  the  envoy  succeeds.  The  Grand  Mufti  declares  that 
it  is  necessary  for  the  Sultan  to  go  to  war  with  the  Czar ;  where- 
upon the  Muscovite  ambassador  is  forthwith  "  clapped  into 
prison  "  by  way  of  commencement  of  hostilities,  and  the  war 
begins.  Peter  immediately  makes  a  levy  of  one  man  in  four, 
besides  one  "  valet  out  of  every  two  belonging  to  the  nobility," 
makes  a  solemn  declaration  of  war,  and  then  marches  at  the  head 
of  forty  thousand  men  to  the  frontier  of  Turkey.  Previously  to 
his  departure  he  makes  a  public  proclamation  of  his  previous 
marriage  to  Catharine;  and  the  Empress,  despite  his  earnest 
remonstrances,  accompanies  the  invading  army. 

It  is  strange  that  the  Czar  on  this  expedition  should  have 
committed  the  same  error,  and  placed  himself  in  almost  the 
same  unfortunate  predicament,  as  his  adversary  Charles.  Trust- 
ing to  the  representations  and  the  friendship  of  the  faithless 
Hospodar  of  Moldavia,  he  advances  rapidly  at  the  head  of  an 
insufiicient  force  into  a  hostile  and  barren  country,  relying  for 
men  and  munitions  of  war  upon  his  ally.  Crossing  the  Pruth, 
he  finds  himself  near  Jassy,  in  a  hostile  country  between  an  army 
of  Turks  and  another  of  Tartars,  with  a  deep  and  rapid  river 
between  him  and  his  own  dominions.  Forty  thousand  Russians 
are  held  at  bay  by  two  hundred  thousand  Turks  and  Tartars. 


328  MOTLEY 

The  situation  of  the  Czar  is  terrible;  annihilation  seems  to 
stare  him  in  the  face.  His  enemy  Charles  visits  the  Turkish 
camp  in  disguise,  urging  the  Czar's  destruction  upon  the  Vizier. 
A  destructive  battle  is  going  on  unceasingly,  which  in  three  days 
costs  him  eighteen  thousand  men.  Rqtreat  is  impossible;  no 
ally  is  near  him,  no  succor  expected.  What  can  possibly  extri- 
cate him?  Shall  he  dash  upon  the  Turks  at  the  head  of  his 
remaining  forces  and  cut  his  way  through  them,  or  die,  sword 
in  hand,  in  the  attempt  ?  Shall  he  surrender  to  the  overwhelm- 
ing power  of  the  Sultan's  army,  and  be  paraded  at  Constanti- 
nople as  the  captive  Czar?  Tortured  and  perplexed,  he  shuts 
himself  up  alone  in  his  tent  and  falls  into  terrible  convulsions. 
None  of  his  generals  dare  approach  him ;  he  has  forbidden  an 
entrance  to  all.  Suddenly,  in  spite  of  the  prohibition,  the  captive 
of  Marienburg  stands  before  him.  She  who  at  all  times  pos- 
sessed a  mysterious  power  to  calm  the  spasmodic  affections, 
half  physical,  half  mental,  to  which  he  was  subject,  now  appears 
before  him  like  an  angel  to  relieve  his  agony  and  to  point  out 
an  escape  from  impending  ruin.  She  suggests  the  idea  of 
negotiation,  which  had  occurred  to  no  one  in  the  desperate  situa- 
tion in  which  they  were  placed,  and  which  she  instinctively 
prophesied  would  still  be  successful.  She  strips  herself  of  her 
jewels,  and  ransacks  the  camp  for  objects  of  value  to  form  a 
suitable  present  for  the  Grand  Vizier.  The  Vice-Chancellor 
Shaffiroff  is  despatched  to  the  enemy's  camp,  and  the  apparently 
impossible  result  is  a  treaty  of  peace.  Arms  are  suspended  im- 
mediately, and  soon  afterward  honorable  articles  are  signed,  of 
which  the  principal  are  the  surrender  of  Azov,  the  exclusion  of 
the  Czar  from  the  Black  Sea,  the  demolition  of  the  fortress  of 
Taganrog,  the  withdrawal  of  the  Russian  soldiers  from  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Danube,  and  the  promise  of  free  passage 
to  Charles  XII  through  Russia  to  his  own  states. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  analyze  or  to  criticise  the  different  mo- 
tives that  actuated  the  Vizier  in  acceding  to  an  honorable  nego- 
tiation, when  the  Czar  seemed  to  be  so  completely  in  his  power. 
It  is  sufficient  that  this  was  the  surprising  and  fortunate  result 
of  Catharine's  counsel.  "  Her  great  merit,"  says  Voltaire,  "  was 
that  she  saw  the  possibility  of  negotiation  at  a  moment  when 
the  generals  seem  to  have  seen  nothing  but  an  inevitable  mis- 
fortune."   No  language  can  describe  the  rage  and  mortification 


PETER  THE  GREAT  329 

of  Charles  XII  at  this  unexpected  result — at  this  apparently 
impossible  escape  of  his  hated  rival  from  overwhelming  ruin. 
Hastening  to  the  camp  of  the  Vizier,  he  upbraids  him,  as  if  he 
had  been  his  master  instead  of  his  stipendiary ;  he  expresses  his 
profound  disgust  that  the  Czar  has  not  been  carried  to  Con- 
stantinople, instead  of  being  allowed  to  go  home  so  easily. 
''  And  who  will  govern  his  empire  in  his  absence?  "  asked  the 
Vizier,  with  bitter  irony,  adding  that  ''  it  would  never  to  do 
have  all  the  sovereigns  away  from  home."  In  answer  to  this 
retort,  Charles  grins  ferociously  in  his  face,  turns  on  his  heel, 
and  tears  the  Vizier's  robe  with  his  spurs.  After  thus  insulting 
the  great  functionary  of  the  Sultan,  he  continues  three  years 
longer  a  pensionary  upon  his  bounty.  To  the  reiterated  en- 
treaties of  his  Senate,  that  he  would  return,  and  attend  to  the 
pressing  exigencies  of  his  kingdom,  he  replies,  in  a  style  worthy 
of  Bombastes,  that  he  would  send  one  of  his  boots  to  govern 
them,  and  remains  at  Bender,  still  deluded  and  besotted  with 
the  idea  that  he  should  yet  appear  with  a  Turkish  force  before 
Moscow.  At  last,  in  1714,  after  fighting  a  pitched  battle  at  the 
head  of  his  valets,  grooms,  and  house-servants,  against  a  con- 
siderable Turkish  army,  sent  to  dislodge  him  by  force,  he  is 
ignominiously  expelled  from  the  country  whose  hospitality  he 
has  so  long  outraged,  and  returns  in  the  disguise  of  a  courier  to 
Sweden. 

The  Czar  upon  his  return  to  his  dominions  gains  a  consider- 
able victory  over  the  Swedish  fleet  in  the  Baltic,  commanding 
his  own  in  person  in  a  line-of-battle  ship  of  his  own  building. 
On  arriving  at  Petersburg  he  ordains  a  great  triumphal  pro- 
cession to  bring  the  captured  ships  with  their  admirals  and  of- 
ficers up  the  Neva.  At  this  time  he  transfers  the  Senate  from 
Moscow  to  Petersburg,  establishes  assemblies,  at  which  the 
penalty  for  infringement  of  the  rules  and  regulations  is  to 
"  empty  the  great  eagle,  a  huge  bowl,  filled  with  wine  and  bran- 
dy," institutes  the  Academy  of  Arts  and  Sciences,  founds  the 
public  library  commenced  with  the  one  captured  ("conveyed, 
the  wise  it  call  ")  from  the  university  at  Abo,  sends  a  mission 
through  Siberia  to  China,  and  draws  up  a  map  of  his  dominions, 
much  of  it  with  his  own  hand. 

In  1 71 5,  after  taking  Stralsund,  completing  the  conquest  of 
Finland  and  Esthonia,  and  commanding  in  person  the  allied 


33©  MOTLEY 

fleets  of  England,  Denmark,  and  Russia,  he  makes  a  second  tour 
in  Europe,  accompanied  by  Catharine.  He  revisits  Saardam, 
where  he  is  received  with  great  enthusiasm,  is  entertained  with 
great  distinction  in  Paris,  and  visits  the  tomb  of  Cardinal  Riche- 
lieu, where  he  exclaims,  dropping  upon  '\iis  knees,  "  Thou  great 
man,  I  would  have  given  thee  half  of  my  dominions  to  have 
learned  of  thee  to  govern  the  other  half."  He  drew  up  with  his 
own  hand  a  treaty  of  commerce  with  France,  and  returned 
through  Berlin  to  Petersburg.  The  letters  of  the  Margravine 
of  Baireuth  from  Berlin  present  no  very  flattering  picture  of  the 
imperial  travellers.  She  describes  Peter  as  dressed  plainly  in 
a  naval  costume,  handsome,  but  rude,  uncouth,  and  of  dreadful 
aspect ;  and  Catharine  as  fat,  f rouzy,  and  vulgar,  needing  only 
to  be  seen  to  betray  her  obscure  origin,  and  bedizened  with 
chains,  orders,  and  holy  relics,  "  making  such  a  Geklinkklank 
as  if  an  ass  with  bells  were  coming  along  " ;  she  represexits  them 
both  as  intolerable  beggars,  plundering  the  palace  of  everything 
they  could  lay  their  hands  on. 

Peter  had  long  ago  constituted  himself  the  head  of  the 
Church,  and  treated  with  contempt  the  pretensions  of  the  prel- 
ates to  temporal  power.  When  at  Paris,  however,  he  had  re- 
ceived an  elaborate  petition  from  the  Sorbonne,  the  object  of 
which  was  to  effect  a  reunion  between  the  Greek  and  Latin 
Churches.  But  the  despot  who  had  constituted  himself  the  head, 
hand,  heart,  and  conscience  of  his  people — who  had  annihilated 
throughout  his  empire  every  element  of  power  adverse  to  his 
own — who  had  crushed  the  soldiery,  the  nobility,  and  the  clergy,, 
deposed  the  patriarch,  and  constituted  himself  the  high  priest 
of  his  empire — was  not  very  likely  to  comply  with  the  -Sorbonne's 
invitation  to  acknowledge  the  supremacy  of  the  Pope  in  his  do- 
minions. Nevertheless,  he  received  their  petition  with  great 
politeness. 

On  his  return  to  Petersburg,  he  was  vexed  by  the  importunity 
of  some  of  his  own  clergy,  who  clamored  for  the  appointment  of 
a  patriarch,  on  the  ground  that  it  was  demanded  by  the  people, 
and  that  it  was  necessary  to  assert  the  dignity  and  independence 
of  the  Greek  Church.  Now  there  happened  to  be  about  Peters- 
burg one  Sotoff,  a  venerable  jester  of  eighty-four,  who  had  been 
the  Czar's  writing-master  in  his  younger  years,  and  at  the  age 
of  seventy  had  been  advanced  to  the  dignity  of  buffoon.    This 


PETER   THE   GREAT  331 

venerable  individual  the  Czar  fixes  upon  for  the  office  of  patri- 
arch, previously  creating  him  a  prince  and  a  pope.  In  order 
to  make  the  office  of  patriarch  completely  ridiculous  in  the  eyes 
of  the  people,  and  to  give  them  a  little  innocent  recreation  at  the 
same  time,  he  now  ordains  a  solemn  marriage  between  this 
patriarch  and  a  "  buxom  widow  of  thirty-four."  We  must  ask 
indulgence  while  we  quote  a  short  description  of  this  funny  cere- 
mony from  the  old  author  already  cited : 

"  The  nuptials  of  this  extraordinary  couple  were  solemnized 
by  the  court  in  masks  or  mock  show.  The  company  consisted  of 
about  four  hundred  persons  of  both  sexes.  Every  four  persons 
had  their  proper  dress  and  peculiar  musical  instruments,  so  , 
that  they  represented  a  hundred  different  sorts  of  habits  and 
music,  particularly  of  the  Asiatic  nations.  The  four  persons 
appointed  to  invite  the  guests  were  the  greatest  stammerers  that 
could  be  found  in  all  Russia.  Old,  decrepit  men,  who  were  not 
able  to  walk  or  stand,  had  been  picked  out  to  serve  for  brides- 
men, stewards,  and  waiters.  There  were  four  running  footmen, 
the  most  unwieldy  fellows,  who  had  been  troubled  with  the  gout 
most  of  their  lives,  and  were  so  fat  and  bulky  that  they  wanted 
others  to  lead  them.  The  mock  Czar  of  Moscow,  who  repre- 
sented King  David  in  his  dress,  instead  of  a  harp,  had  a  lyre 
with  a  bear-skin  to  play  upon.  He,  being  the  chief  of  the  com- 
pany, was  carried  on  a  sort  of  a  pageant  placed  on  a  sled,  to  the 
four  corners  of  which  were  tied  as  many  bears,  which,  being 
pricked  with  goads  by  fellows  purposely  appointed  for  it,  made 
such  a  frightful  roaring  as  well  suited  the  confused  and  horrible 
din  raised  by  the  disagreeing  instruments  of  the  rest  of  the 
company.  The  Czar  himself  was  dressed  like  a  boor  of  Fries- 
land,  and  skilfully  beat  a  drum  in  company  with  three  generals. 
In  this  manner,  bells  ringing  everywhere,  the  ill-matched  couple 
were  attended  by  the  masks  to  the  altar  of  the  great  church, 
where  they  were  joined  in  matrimony  by  a  priest  a  hundred 
years  old,  who  had  lost  his  eyesight  and  his  memory ;  to  supply 
which  defect  a  pair  of  spectacles  were  put  upon  his  nose,  two 
candles  held  before  his  eyes,  and  the  words  sounded  into  his 
ears,  which  he  was  to  pronounce.  From  church  the  procession 
went  to  the  Czar's  palace,  where  the  diversion  lasted  some  days. 
Many  strange  adventures  and  comical  accidents  happened  on 
their  riding-sleds  through  the  streets,  too  long  to  be  related  here. 


332 


MOTLEY 


Thus  much  may  suffice  to  show  that  the  Czar,  among  all  the 
heavy  cares  of  government,  knew  how  to  set  apart  some  days 
for  the  relaxation  of  his  mind,  and  how  ingenious  he  was  in 
the  contrivance  of  those  diversions." 

We  confess  that  we  are  unable  to  agree  with  the  grave  con- 
clusion of  the  author  from  whom  we  quote.  To  us  this  "  in- 
genious diversion  "  seems  about  as  sorry  a  jest  as  we  ever  heard 
of.  However,  it  was  considered  "  most  admirable  fooling  "  in 
Moscow,  and,  at  all  events,  after  two  or  three  repetitions,  seems 
to  have  quite  cured  the  people  of  their  desire  for  patriarchs. 

"  The  Czar,"  says  Voltaire,  "  thus  laughingly  avenged  twenty 
emperors  of  Germany,  ten  kings  of  France,  and  a  host  of  sover- 
eigns. This  was  all  the  fruit  which  the  Sorbonne  gathered  from 
their  not  very  poHtic  idea  of  reuniting  the  Greek  and  Latin 
Churches." 

The  darkest  chapter  in  the  life  of  Peter  now  approaches.  Af- 
ter the  lapse  of  a  century,  no  one  can  read  the  account  of  that 
dreadful  tragedy,  the  trial,  condemnation,  and  death  of  the  Czar- 
evitch Alexis,  without  a  shudder  of  horror.  No  one  can  con- 
template the  spectacle  of  a  son  judicially  condemned  by  his 
father  for  no  crime — no  one  can  read  the  record  of  the  solemn 
farce  which  represents  the  trial  of  the  unfortunate  victim  with- 
out feeling  all  his  admiration  for  the  extraordinary  qualities  of 
the  Czar  swallowed  up  by  indignation  and  abhorrence.  Up  to 
this  time  Peter  seems  a  man — a  hard-hearted,  despotic,  inexor- 
able man,  perhaps — but  he  is  still  human.  He  now  seems  only 
a  machine,  a  huge  engine  of  unparalleled  power,  placed  upon 
the  earth  to  effect  a  certain  task,  working  its  mighty  arms  night 
and  day  with  ceaseless  and  untiring  energy,  crashing  through 
all  obstacles,  and  annihilating  everything  in  its  path  with  the 
unfeeling  precision  of  gigantic  mechanism. 

It  was  hardly  to  be  expected,  to  be  sure,  that  this  tremendous 
despot,  who  had  recoiled  before  no  obstacle  in  the  path  of  his 
settled  purpose,  who  had  strode  over  everything  with  the  step 
of  a  giant,  who  had  given  two  seas  to  an  inland  empire,  who 
had  conquered  the  most  warlike  nation  and  sovereign  of  Europe 
with  barbarians  in  petticoats,  who  had  crushed  the  nobility,  anni- 
hilated the  janizaries,  trampled  the  patriarch  in  the  dust — who 
had  repudiated  his  wife  because  she  was  attached  to  the  old 
customs  of  Muscovy,  and  had  married  and  crowned  a  pastry- 


Peter  the  great  33^ 

cook's  mistress  because  it  was  his  sovereign  will  and  pleasure — 
it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that  such  a  man  would  hesitate 
about  disinheriting  his  own  son  if  he  thought  proper  to  do  so. 
But  it  might  have  been  hoped  that  he  would  content  himself 
with  disinheriting  him,  and  that  the  "  Pater  Patriae,"  as  by 
solemn  decree  he  was  shortly  afterward  entitled,  would  remem- 
ber that  he  was  also  father  of  Alexis. 

This  unhappy  young  man,  the  son  of  the  repudiated  wife  of 
the  Czar,  seems  to  have  been  a  very  miserable  creature.  We 
have  the  fullest  sympathy  with  the  natural  disappointment  of 
Peter  at  the  incorrigible,  hopeless  stupidity  and  profligacy  of  his 
son.  Still,  he  had  himself  to  blame  in  a  great  measure  for  many 
of  his  son's  defects.  His  education  had  been  neglected,  or 
rather,  worse  than  neglected;  it  had  been  left  to  the  care  of 
monks,  to  the  care  of  the  very  order  of  people  most  wedded  to 
the  ancient  state  of  things,  and  most  desirous  of  restoring  it  if 
possible.  The  necessary  result  of  such  training  upon  a  dull  boy 
might  easily  have  been  foreseen.  There  was,  however,  not  the 
slightest  objection  to  disinheriting  him ;  he  had  no  claim  to  the 
throne,  and  he  was  totally  unworthy  of  it.  There  was  no  law  of 
Russia  designating  the  eldest  son  as  successor.  On  the  con- 
trary, the  genius  of  the  Russian  autocracy  seems  to  vest  the 
fee  simple  of  all  the  Russias  and  all  the  Russians  in  the  actual 
autocrat,  to  be  disposed  of  as  he  sees  fit,  and  devised  to  whom- 
soever he  deems  most  eligible.  This  had  been,  and  was  then,  the 
law,  if  it  be  worth  while  to  talk  about  law  when  the  will  of  the 
sovereign  makes  and  alters  the  law  at  any  moment.  Alexis 
seems  to  have  been  weak,  dissolute,  and  intriguing — a  sot,  a 
bigot,  a  liar,  and  a  coward — the  tool  of  "  bushy-bearded  "  priests 
and  designing  women,  whose  control  of  the  empire  had  been 
terminated  by  Peter's  energetic  measures.  The  Czar's  pre- 
dominating fear  was  that  at  his  death  the  empire  would  relapse 
into  the  quagmire  of  barbarism  from  which  he  had  reclaimed  it. 
Alexis,  priest-ridden  and  ignorant,  was  sure  to  become  a  tool 
in  the  hands  of  priests  as  soon  as  he  should  ascend  the  throne, 
and  the  old  order  of  things  would  as  surely  be  reinstated. 

Peter,  soon  after  the  death  of  his  son's  wife  (a  virtuous  and 
intelligent  German  princess,  whose  life  seems  to  have  been  worn 
out  by  the  neglect,  cruelty,  and  debauchery  of  her  husband), 
remonstrates  with  him  upon  his  evil  courses,  commands  him 


334  MOTLEY 

to  reform,  and  threatens  else  to  disinherit  him.  "  Amend  your 
life,  or  else  turn  monk,"  says  the  Czar.  "  I  intend  to  embrace 
the  monastic  life,"  replies  the  son ;  "  I  pledge  myself  to  do  so, 
and  only  ask  your  gracious  permission."  The  Czar,  just  before 
his  departure  for  Germany  and  France,  visits  Alexis,  who  was, 
or  pretended  to  be,  confined  to  his  bed  by  sickness.  The  young 
man  again  renews  his  renunciation  of  the  succession  and  repeats 
his  pledge  to  become  a  monk.  Peter  bids  him  take  six  months 
to  consider  the  matter,,takes  an  affectionate  farewell  of  him,  and 
sets  out  upon  his  travels.  As  soon  as  his  back  is  turned,  Alexis 
realizes  the  old  distich : 

"  The  devil  was  sick,  the  devil  a  monk  would  be ; 
The  devil  got  well,  the  devil  a  monk  was  he." 

He  recovers  his  health  instantaneously,  and  celebrates  his 
father's  departure  by  getting  very  drunk  with  a  select  party  of 
friends.  Seven  months  afterward  the  Czar  writes  to  him  to  join 
him  at  Copenhagen,  if  he  had  determined  to  reform  his  life  and 
make  himself  fit  for  the  succession ;  if  not,  to  execute  his  monas- 
tic plans  without  delay.  Alexis  accordingly  announces  his  inten- 
tion of  going  to  Copenhagen,  draws  a  heavy  bill  on  Menshikoff 
for  his  travelling  expenses,  leaves  Moscow,  and,  instead  of 
Copenhagen,  sneaks  off  to  Vienna.  The  Emperor  of  Ger- 
many, however,  turns  him  off,  and  he  goes  to  Naples.  Two 
envoys  of  the  Czar,  Tolstoy  and  Romanzoff,  proceed  to  Naples 
and  induce  him,  by  ample  promises  of  forgiveness  on  the  part 
of  his  father,  to  return.  The  following  is  a  part  of  his  father's 
letter : 

"  I  write  to  you  for  the  last  time,  to  tell  you  that  you  are  to 
execute  my  will,  which  Tolstoy  and  Romanzoff  will  announce 
to  you  on  my  part.  If  you  obey  me,  I  assure  you  and  I  prom- 
ise, in  the  name  of  God,  that  I  will  not  punish  you,  and  that, 
if  you  return,  I  will  love  you  more  than  ever ;  but  if  you  do 
not,  I  give  you  as  your  father,  in  virtue  of  the  power  which 
I  have  received  from  God,  my  eternal  curse ;  and  as  your 
sovereign,  I  assure  you  that  I  shall  find  the  means  of  punish- 
ing you ;  in  which  I  hope  that  God  will  assist  me,  and  that  he 
will  take  my  just  cause  in  his  hand." 

Upon  the  faith  of  this  sacred  promise  Alexis  accompanies 
the  two  emissaries  to  Moscow,  where  they  arrive  on  Febru- 


PETER  THE  GREAT  335 

ary  13,  1718.  The  day  after  his  arrival  the  Czar,  by  way 
of  keeping  his  promise  of  pardoning  and  loving  him  more 
than  ever,  calls  a  grand  council  of  the  senate  and  all  the  dig- 
nitaries of  the  empire,  and  there,  in  the  most  solemn;  formal, 
and  authentic  manner,  disinherits  Alexis,  deprives  him  of  all 
claim  to  the  succession,  and  obliges  him,  and  all  those  pres- 
ent, to  take  the  oath  of  future  allegiance  to  his  and  Catharine's 
son  Peter,  then  an  infant,  who,  however,  shortly  afterward 
died.  This  was  the  beginning  of  the  fulfilment  of  his  promise ; 
but  it  was  only  the  beginning  of  the  end,  Alexis  was  worth- 
less, ignorant,  stupid,  and  depraved ;  but  he  had  committed 
no  crime,  and  deserved  no  punishment,  certainly  not  the  pun- 
ishment of  death.  A  comfortable  state  of  things  there  would 
be  in  the  world,  if  every  man  who  happened  to  have  a  profligate 
dunce  of  a  son  were  to  be  justified  in  cutting  his  head  off ;  and 
for  an  autocrat  and  high  priest  to  do  so  seems  to  us  a  thou- 
sand times  more  atrocious. 

However,  the  Czar  seems  to  have  been  determined,  after 
his  first  evasion,  to  get  rid  of  him,  and  accordingly  produces 
the  charge  of  a  conspiracy.  Alexis  is  formally  accused  of 
conspiring  against  his  father's  life  and  throne^  and  a  pack 
of  perfectly  contemptible  stuff  is  collected  together  to  make 
what  was  called  evidence ;  it  consisted  of  confessions  of  his 
mistress,  his  pot-companions,  and  his  confessor — all  upon 
the  rack — that  he  had  been  known  to  express  wishes  for  his 
father's  death,  and  to  throw  out  hints  about  receiving  as- 
sistance, in  a  certain  event,  from  the  Emperor  of  Germany. 
But  in  the  whole  mess  of  it  there  is  not  the  faintest  shadow 
of  a  shade  of  evidence  that  he  had  ever  conspired,  that  he 
had  ever  entertained  any  design  against  his  father;  and  the 
necessary  result,  upon  any  candid  mind,  of  a  perusal  of  the 
evidence  is  a  conviction  of  his  perfect  innocence  of  the  crime 
charged  upon  him.  There  is  not  a  country  in  the  world  where 
there  is  any  pretence  of  administering  justice,  in  which  such 
an  accusation,  supported  by  such  evidence,  would  not  have 
been  hooted  out  of  court.  Still,  the  accusation  was  made, 
and  something  which  they  called  a  trial  was  instituted.  The 
prince  is  sworn  upon  the  Holy  Evangelists  to  tell  the  whole 
truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth ;  and  he  immediately  begins 
to  utter  lies  by  the  wholesale.     His  weak  intellect  seems  to 


336  MOTLEY 

have  been  possessed  and  disordered  by  one  idea — that  if  he 
should  confess  a  great  deal  more  than  was  expected,  and  make 
himself  out  much  more  guilty  than  he  was  supposed  to  be, 
he  should  perhaps  obtain  his  pardon.  Having,  however,  done 
nothing  criminal,  and  having  said  nothing  that  could  be  fairly 
considered  suspicious,  he  dives  into  the  bottom  of  his  breast, 
and  brings  up  and  displays  his  most  secret  thoughts  by  way 
of  self-accusation.  The  truth  seems  to  have  been  that  he  was 
bullied  to  the  last  degree.  We  know  the  Czar  to  have  been 
a  man  who  eminently  inspired  awe,  and  Alexis  was  of  an  un- 
commonly sneaking  disposition.  As  the  event  proved,  Peter 
absolutely  frightened  his  son  to  death.  Certainly,  never  were 
the  forms  of  judicial  investigation  so  outraged  as  in  this  trial. 
The  details  are  sickening,  and  we  have  already  transgressed 
the  indulgence  of  our  readers.  Let  one  or  two  questions, 
made  by  the  prosecution,  and  answered  by  the  criminal  in 
writing,  suffice  as  specimens  of  the  Czar's  criminal  juris- 
prudence : 

"  When  you  saw,  in  the  letter  of  Beyer  "  (a  gossiping  en- 
voy from  the  German  Emperor's  Court,  who  wrote  to  his 
sovereign  all  the  news,  true  or  false,  as  fast  as  he  picked  it 
up),  "  that  there  was  a  revolt  in  the  army  of  Mecklenburg, 
you  were  rejoiced;  I  believe  that  you  had  some  view,  and 
that  you  would  have  declared  for  the  rebels,  even  in  my  life- 
time." The  answer  of  Alexis  is,  "  If  the  rebels  had  called  me 
in  your  lifetime,  I  should  probably  have  joined  them,  sup- 
posing that  they  had  been  strong  enough."  In  answer  to 
another  question,  he  avows  that  "  he  had  accused  himself  be- 
fore God,  in  confession  to  the  priest  Jacques,  of  having  wished 
the  death  of  his  father;  and  that  the  confessor  Jacques  had 
replied :  *  God  will  pardon  you  for  it ;  we  all  wish  it  as  much.'  " 

After  this  farce  of  a  trial  had  been  enacted,  the  Czar,  waiv- 
ing his  prerogative  of  life  and  death,  determined  to  submit 
the  case  to  the  judgment  of  the  clergy,  judges,  and  high 
officers  of  state.  This  always  seemed  to  us  very  paltry.  It 
was  an  attempt  to  shift  the  responsibility  of  the  murder  off 
his  own  shoulders,  where  only  it  belonged.  The  council  of 
clergy,  after  recognizing  the  Czar's  power^ — jus  vitco  et  necis 
— which  nobody  ever  doubted,  and  citing  several  cases  from 
the  Old  Testament,  recommended  mercy,  relying  principally 


PETER   THE   GREAT  337 

Upon  Absalom's  case.  It  was  plain  they  washed  their  hands 
of  it.  Meantime,  further  investigations,  it  was  pretended,  had 
made  the  matter  worse ;  and,  on  July  5th,  the  ministers,  sena- 
tors, and  generals  unanimously  condemn  the  prince  to  death, 
leaving  the  sentence,  of  course,  open  to  the  Czar's  revision, 
and  prescribing  no  particular  mode  of  execution.  The  sen- 
tence of  death  is  published,  Alexis  is  informed  of  it,  and  seems 
literally  to  have  been  frightened  to  death  by  it;  for,  while 
the  Czar  was  deliberating  what  course  to  take  (and  the  opinion 
of  the  most  indulgent — we  confess  not  ours — seems  to  be  that 
he  did  not  intend  the  execution  of  the  sentence),  the  unfor- 
tunate young  man  was  carried  off  by  a  kind  of  apopletic 
seizure,  and,  on  July  7th,  died  contrite,  receiving  the  sacrament 
and  extreme  unction,  and  imploring  his  father's  pardon. 

This  account  seems  to  be  now  accepted  as  the  true  one. 
But  the  Marquis  de  Custine,  in  his  greediness  to  devour  every- 
thing that  blackens  the  character  of  Russia  in  general,  and 
of  Peter  the  Great  in  particular,  could  not,  of  course,  fail  to 
reproduce  the  stories  that  have  been  told  and  retold,  exploded 
and  reexploded — and  which  will  continue,  we  suppose,  to  be 
told  and  exploded,  believed  in  and  ridiculed,  to  the  end  of 
time.  It  was  not  believed  by  many  people  in  Europe  at  the 
time,  and  it  is  not  believed  by  the  Comte  de  Segur  and  the 
Marquis  de  Custine  now,  that  the  prince  died  a  natural  death 
— if  the  cataleptic  convulsive  fit,  consequent  upon  extreme 
and  protracted  mental  agony,  which  finally  ended  his  life,  can 
be  called  a  natural  and  not  a  violent  death.  All  sorts  of  stories 
were  told  at  the  time,  each  more  incredible  than  the  other, 
and  each  disproving  the  other.  The  Czar  was  said  to  have 
knouted  him  to  death  with  his  own  hands — to  have  poisoned 
him  with  a  potion  which  he  sent  Marshal  Weyde  to  an 
apothecary's  shop  in  broad  daylight  to  procure — to  have  cut 
of¥  his  head,  and  then  to  have  had  it  privately  sewed  on  again 
by  Madame  Cramer — in  short,  to  have  made  away  with  him 
by  a  variety  of  means,  all  of  which  could  not  well  have  been 
true,  and  all  of  which  are,  under  the  circumstances,  extremely 
unlikely.  To  us  it  seems  ridiculous  to  add  a  new  horror  to 
this  terrible  tragedy.  We  are  not  sure,  either,  that  the  sup- 
posed assassination  makes  the  matter  any  worse.  "  Murder 
most  foul  as  at  the  best  it  is,"  we  are  unable  to  see  that  the 


338  MOTLEY 

private  murder  is  a  whit  more  atrocious  than  the  public,  sol- 
emn, and  judicial  murder  of  which  the  Czar  stands  accused 
and  condemned  to  all  eternity. 

It  certainly  does  not  seem  to  have  been  in  Peter's  nature 
to  have  taken  his  son  off  by  poison,  or  in  any  private  way. 
The  autocrat  was  a  man  who  gloried  in  his  own  actions,  in 
displaying  the  tremendous,  irresistible  power  of  his  own  will. 
He  had  collected  all  the  dignity  of  his  empire  to  assist  at  the 
spectacle;  he  had  invoked  the  attention  of  all  Europe  to  the 
tragedy  he  proposed  to  enact;  he  had  determined  to  execute 
his  son,  and  he  did  intend,  we  have  no  doubt,  to  murder  him 
in  the  most  ceremonious  manner,  and  for  the  good  of  his 
country.  We  have  not  a  doubt  of  his  motives;  he  thought 
himself  actuated  by  the  purest  philanthropy;  but  these  ex- 
pansive bosoms,  which  embrace  the  whole  earth,  or  a  third 
of  it,  in  their  colossal  affection,  are  apt  to  be  deficient  in  the 
humbler  virtues  of  love  and  charity  when  it  comes  to  detail. 
The  truth  was,  Peter  loved  his  country  so  well  that  he  de- 
termined to  sacrifice  his  son  to  its  welfare;  in  other  words, 
his  heart  was  as  hard  as  the  nether  millstone,  and  he  would 
have  sacrificed  twenty  thousand  sons  rather  than  have  been 
thwarted  in  the  cherished  projects  of  his  ambitious  intellect. 
But  we  confess  we  can  conceive  of  no  motive  for  the  alleged 
assassination.  It  was  not  in  the  character  of  the  Emperor, 
and  it  was  a  piece  of  stupidity  as  well  as  barbarity.  '*  If  the 
assassination  had  trammelled  up  the  consequence  "  of  all  that 
preceded,  "  then  it  were  well  " ;  and  the  deed  might  have  been 
possible.  But  the  broken  faith  to  his  son,  the  atrocious  trial, 
the  deliberate  condemnation,  could  in  no  manner  have  been 
obliterated  from  the  minds  of  men  by  the  "  deep  damnation  " 
of  a  secret  "  taking  off."  He  had  announced  to  the  world  his 
intention  of  executing  his  son  for  alleged  disobedience  and 
conspiracy;  he  had  sent  to  every  court  in  Europe  copies  of 
the  judicial  proceedings,  ending  in  the  condemnation  of  the 
victim;  he  had  been  publicly  brandishing  the  sword  of  jus- 
tice over  his  son's  neck,  and  calling  upon  the  world  to  witness 
the  spectacle ;  and  why  he  should  have  made  all  this  parade 
for  the  mere  purpose  of  poisoning  him,  knouting  him,  or 
cutting  his  head  off  in  secret,  seems  inexplicable. 

Besides,  as  Voltaire  very  strongly  urges,  the  different  kinds 


PETER   THE   GREAT 


339 


of  assassination  alleged  disprove  each  other,  and  the  fact  that 
Alexis  was  never  alone  from  the  moment  of  the  condemna- 
tion to  the  hour  of  his  death  makes  any  secret  execution  im- 
possible. The  knouting  story  has  not  found  many  advocates ; 
the  poisoning  and  the  beheading  are  supported  about  equally, 
and  are  both  about  equally  probable.  It  certainly  was  not 
probable  that  the  Czar  would  have  sent  a  high  officer  of  court 
to  fetch  the  poison,  and  a  few  minutes  afterward  have  de- 
spatched another  messenger  to  bid  the  first  make  great  haste. 
This  is  not  exactly  the  way  in  which  poisoning  is  usually  man- 
aged. And  the  other  story,  that  the  young  man's  head  was 
cut  off  and  then  sewed  on  again,  is  so  ludicrous  that  it  would 
deserve  no  attention  but  for  the  number  of  writers  who  have 
reported  it  upon  the  authority  of  contemporaneous  gossip. 
At  what  moment  the  Czar  found  a  secret  opportunity  to  cut 
the  head  off — how  Madame  Cramer  found  a  secret  opportu- 
nity to  sew  it  on  again — how  this  ingenious  lady,  who,  we 
suppose,  had  not  practised  this  kind  of  needlework  as  a  pro- 
fession, was  able  to  fit  it  on  so  adroitly  as  to  deceive  not  only  the 
whole  court  but  even  the  patient  himself,  for,  as  far  as  we  can 
understand  the  story,  Alexis  seems  to  have  received  extreme 
unction  and  the  sacrament,  in  presence  of  about  a  hundred 
witnesses,  after  Mrs.  Cramer's  job  was  finished — are  all  mat- 
ters very  difficult  to  explain.  Moreover,  as  we  have  already 
observed,  we  do  not  see  much  greater  atrocity  in  the  one  case 
than  in  the  other.  Peter's  will  being  the  only  law  of  the  land, 
he  could  do  what  he  chose,  execute  his  son  as  he  chose,  and 
by  his  own  hand  if  he  chose.  The  only  law  which  could  have 
any  binding  force  over  the  autocrat  was  the  law  of  nature,  and 
that,  to  his  soul  of  granite,  was  weaker  than  the  spider's  web. 
He  was  determined  to  sacrifice  his  son  to  the  welfare  of  his 
country,  and  to  insure  the  continuance  of  his  reformation  in 
Church  and  State.  Sacrifices  of  this  sort  have  always  found 
advocates  and  admirers,  and  are  sure  to  be  repeated  on  great 
occasions,  and  at  rare  intervals,  to  the  end  of  time. 

Dismissing  this  painful  subject,  we  hasten  to  conclude  this 
imperfect  sketch  of  the  principal  events  in  the  Czar's  history. 
We  will  not  dwell  upon  the  extraordinary  but  abortive  in- 
trigues of  the  two  arch-plotters  of  Europe,  Cardinal  Alberoni 
and  Baron  Gortz,  by  which  the  Czar  and  the  Swedish  mon- 


340  MOTLEY 

arch  were  to  be  reconciled  and  combined  in  a  plot  against 
George  I  of  England,  and  in  favor  of  the  Pretender.  A  chance 
bullet  from  "  a  petty  fortress  and  a  dubious  hand  "  at  Fred- 
erikshald,  in  Norway,  terminates  at  once  the  life  of  Charles 
and  the  intrigues  of  Gortz.  The  baron,  instead  of  taking  the 
crown  from  George's  head,  loses  his  own  head  at  Stockholm ; 
Alberoni  is  turned  out  of  Spain ;  and  the  Czar  remains  in  statu 
quo,  having  been  careful  throughout  the  whole  intrigue,  which 
was  perfectly  well  known  in  England,  to  make  the  most  bare- 
faced promises  of  eternal  friendship  to  the  House  of  Hanover ; 
and  "  to  reiterate,"  as  the  diplomatists  say,  "  the  assurances 
of  his  distinguished  consideration  "  for  the  English  King  all 
the  time  that  he  was  plotting  against  his  throne. 

The  death  of  Charles  alters  the  complexion  of  Europe. 
Peace,  which  was  hardly  possible  during  his  lifetime,  becomes 
the  immediate  object  of  all  parties.  The  Prince  of  Hesse, 
husband  of  Queen  Ulrica,  and,  by  cession  of  his  wife.  King 
of  Sweden,  is  desirous  of  peace  upon  almost  any  terms  which 
will  allow  of  an  honorable  repose  to  his  exhausted  and  im- 
poverished country.  Peter,  having  obtained  possession  of  all 
the  provinces  he  required,  is  ready  to  sheathe  the  sword  on 
receiving  proper  recognition  of  his  title  to  the  property  thus 
acquired ;  and  accordingly,  after  a  good  deal  of  bravado  upon 
the  Baltic  between  the  English  and  the  Russian  fleets,  and 
the  burning  of  some  fifty  or  sixty  Swedish  villages,  innu- 
merable chateaux,  and  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  houses,  in 
a  descent  made  by  the  Russians  upon  the  coasts  of  Sweden, 
the  war,  which  continues  with  ferocity  during  all  the  negotia- 
tions for  peace,  is  at  last  brought  to  a  conclusion  by  the  sign- 
ing of  the  treaty  of  Neustadt,  on  September  lo,  1721.  By 
this  treaty  of  peace,  the  Czar  is  guaranteed  in  the  possession 
of  Livonia,  Esthonia,  Ingria,  Carelia,  Viborg,  and  the  many 
adjacent  islands,  and  thus  reaps  the  reward  of  twenty  years' 
hard  labor;  receiving,  moreover,  from  the  senate  and  synod, 
by  solemn  decree — what  seems  insipid  homage  for  an  auto- 
crat— the  titles  of  Great,  Emperor,  and  Pater  Patriae. 

After  an  interval  of  two  years,  passed  in  establishing  woollen, 
paper,  and  glass  manufactories,  embellishing  his  capital,  and 
regulating  the  internal  and  foreign  commerce  of  Russia,  we 
suddenly  find  him,  accompanied  by  the  faithful  Catharine,  de- 


PETER   THE  GREAT  341 

scending  the  Volga  at  the  head  of  a  large  army.  A  revolution 
which  had  broken  out  in  Persia,  in  the  course  of  which  the 
reigning  sovereign,  the  imbecile  Hussein,  finds  himself  hard 
pressed  by  the  Afghan  prince,  Meer  Mahmoud,  offers  an  op- 
portunity to  Peter  to  possess  himself  of  a  few  maritime  prov- 
inces on  the  Caspian,  to  console  him  for  the  loss  of  Azov 
consequent  upon  the  disaster  of  the  Pruth.  A  few  hundred  Rus- 
sians, engaged  in  commerce  at  the  town  of  Shamakia,  having 
been  cut  to  pieces  during  some  of  the  hostile  movements,  he 
finds  therein  a  pretext  for  invading  Persia,  and  requiring  satis- 
faction from  both  sovereign  and  rebel.  Failing  in  this,  of 
course,  he  sails  from  Astrakhan  to  Derbent,  which  town  he 
takes  possession  of,  and,  soon  afterward,  being  applied  to  by 
the  unhappy  Sophi  for  protection  against  the  Afghans,  he 
consents  to  afford  it,  in  consideration  of  receiving  the  towns 
of  Baku  and  Derbent,  together  with  the  provinces  of  Ghilan, 
Mazanderan,  and  Astrabad.  "  It  is  not  land  I  want,  but 
water,"  exclaims  the  Czar,  as  he  snatches  these  sunny  prov- 
inces, the  whole  southern  coast  of  the  Caspian,  the  original 
kingdom  of  Cyrus,  from  the  languid  hand  of  the  Persian,  with- 
out the  expenditure  of  the  blood,  time,  and  treasure  which  it 
had  cost  him  to  wrest  the  frozen  swamps  of  Finland  from  the 
iron  grasp  of  Charles. 

Peter's  conquests  are  now  concluded.  The  Russian  colos- 
sus now  stands  astride,  from  the  "  thrilling  regions  of  thick- 
ribbed  ice  "  on  the  Baltic  to  the  *'  fragrant  bowers  of  Astra- 
bad  "  on  the  Caspian,  with  a  foot  upon  either  sea.  The  man 
who  had  begun  to  gratify  his  passion  for  maritime  affairs  by 
paddling  a  little  skiff  on  the  Yausa,  and  who  became  on  his 
accession  only  the  barbaric  sovereign  of  an  inland  and  un- 
known country,  now  finds  himself  the  lord  of  two  seas,  with 
a  considerable  navy,  built  almost  by  his  own  hand.  It  was 
upon  his  return  to  Petersburg  from  his  Persian  expedition 
that  he  ordered  the  very  skiff  in  which -he  commenced  navi- 
gation to  be  brought  from  Moscow,  and  took  occasion  to  give 
to  his  court  an  entertainment  which  was  called  the  **  consecra- 
tion of  the  Little  Grandsire,"  that  being  the  name  he  had  given 
to  the  skiff.  At  the  time  of  this  ceremony  of  the  consecration, 
the  progeny  of  the  Little  Grandsire  numbered  already,  ac- 
cording to  the  returns  of  the  admiralty,  "  forty-one  ships  of 


342  MOTLEY 

the  line,  in  a  condition  for  service  at  sea,  carrying  twenty-one 
hundred  and  six  guns,  manned  with  fourteen  thousand  nine 
hundred  seamen,  besides  a  proportionate  number  of  frigates, 
galleys,  and  other  small  craft."  The  little  cabin  which  was 
Peter's  house  while  building  Petersburg  still  stands  upon 
what  is  now  called  the  Citadel ;  it  is  consecrated  as  a  chapel, 
filled  with  votive  offerings,  and  inclosed  with  a  brick  wall, 
and  the  Little  Grandsire  is  religiously  preserved  within  the 
building. 

We  are  certainly  not  taken  in  by  the  colossal  puerility  of 
the  Russian  marine  any  more  than  the  Marquis  de  Custine 
is ;  and,  although  the  descendants  of  the  Little  Grandsire  are 
now  at  least  double  the  number  they  were  at  the  time  of  the 
consecration,  we  have  not  heard  of  any  very  brilliant  exploits 
on  any  ocean  to  justify  the  very  imposing  and  very  Roman 
rostra  which  decorate  the  exchange  at  Petersburg.  To  use 
a  vulgar  but  expressive  phrase,  the  Russian  navy  has  not  yet 
set  the  Baltic  on  lire,  and  we  doubt  if  it  ever  will.  If  it  could 
thaw  a  Httle,  it  would  be  all  the  better;  for,  Cronstadt  being 
blockaded  by  ice  six  months  in  the  year,  the  navy  is  only 
paraded  during  the  pleasant  weather  for  the  amusement  of  the 
autocrat.  As  long  as  England  stands  where  it  does,  and  the 
Russian  winter  remains  as  it  is,  we  shall  hardly  fear  much 
from  the  descendants  of  the  Little  Grandsire,  at  least  till  the 
capital  is  shifted  to  the  Bosphorus. 

At  the  same  time  we  are  far  from  agreeing  with  the  Mar- 
quis de  Custine  in  his  sweeping  condemnation  of  Peter's 
policy  in  building  Petersburg  and  establishing  a  marine.  It 
was  a  thousand  times  better  to  have  the  Black  Sea  and  the 
Baltic  than  nothing;  and  if  his  successors  had  taken  half  as 
much  pains  as  himself  in  fostering  the  maritime  trade  of  the 
country,  and  if  Russia,  instead  of  all  this  parade  of  ships  of 
the  line,  frigates,  and  steamers,  could  create  a  mercantile  ma- 
rine for  itself,  and  could  manage  its  own  considerable  foreign 
trade,  now  monopolized  by  foreign  vessels,  principally  the 
English,  she  might  still  obtain  the  germ  of  a  maritime  popu- 
lation while  waiting  for  Constantinople.  But  till  she  learns 
that  the  strength  of  a  navy  consists  in,  sailors  and  not  ships 
she  is  not  likely  to  be  a  very  formidable  power  upon  the  ocean, 
let  her  build  as  many  line-of-battle  ships  as  she  chooses. 


PETER  THE   GREAT  343 

The  only  other  interesting  incident  in  Peter's  life,  which 
now  draws  rapidly  to  its  close,  was  the  coronation  of  Catha- 
rine as  Empress  consort.  This  event  was  celebrated  with  ex- 
traordinary pomp,  and  particular  stress  is  laid  in  the  Emperor's 
proclamation  upon  her  conduct  in  the  affair  of  the  Pruth,  and 
the  salvation  of  himself  and  his  army  is  attributed  to  her  hero- 
ism and  presence  of  mind.  There  seems  to  be  little  doubt  that 
Peter  intended  this  solemn  coronation  of  the  Empress  during 
his  lifetime — a  ceremony  which  was  not  usual  in  Russia — 
to  be  an  indication  of  his  intention  that  she  should  succeed 
to  the  throne  upon  his  death. 

Very  soon  after  this,  having  exposed  himself  when  in  a 
feeble  state  of  health  by  standing  in  the  water  a  long  time 
and  over-exerting  himself  in  saving  the  lives  of  some  sailors 
and  soldiers  who  were  near  being  wrecked  in  a  storm  upon 
the  Gulf  of  Finland,  he  was  attacked  by  a  painful  disorder, 
to  which  he  had  been  subject  during  the  latter  years  of  his 
life,  and  expired  with  calmness  and  resignation  on  January 
28,  1725.  His  sufferings  during  his  last  illness  had  been  so 
intense  that  he  was  unable  to  make  any  intelligible  disposi- 
tion as  to  the  succession ;  and,  strange  to  say,  the  possessor 
of  this  mighty  empire,  of  which  the  only  fundamental  law 
was  the  expressed  will  of  the  sovereign,  died  intestate.  It  is 
in  the  highest  degree  probable  that  he  had  intended  to  appoint 
his  wife  as  his  successor ;  at  any  rate,  assisted  by  the  prompt- 
ness of  Menshikofif  and  her  own  resolution,  Catharine  ascended 
the  throne  without  opposition. 

The  disorder  which  thus  cut  of?  the  Czar  in  the  fifty-fourth 
year  of  his  age  was  an  acute  inflammation  of  the  intestines 
and  bladder ;  but,  as  a  matter  of  course,  his  death  was  attrib- 
uted to  poison.  We  do  not  observe  that  the  Marquis  de 
Custine  has  revived  this  story,  which  is  matter  of  surprise  to 
us,  particularly  as  we  believe  that  his  friend  the  Comte  de 
Segur  has  adopted  it  in  his  history.  The  temptation  to  dam- 
age the  character  of  the  Empress,  and  to  represent  her  to 
posterity  as  an  adulteress  and  a  poisoner,  was  too  strong  to 
be  resisted  by  the  contemporary  chroniclers.  Lamberti  gives 
us  a  detailed  account  of  an  intrigue  of  Catharine  with  one  of 
her  chamberlains,  a  melodramatic  discovery  made  by  Peter 
in  an  arbor,  and  a  consequent  determination  upon  his  part 


344  MOTLEY 

to  shut  her  up  for  life  in  a  convent.  She  escaped  her  fate, 
according  to  the  same  faithful  historian,  in  a  singular  manner. 
Peter,  it  appears,  kept  a  memorandum-book,  and  was  in  the 
habit  of  making  daily  minutes  of  everything  he  proposed  to 
do ;  while  one  of  Catharine's  pages  was  in  the  habit  of  secretly 
bringing  His  Majesty's  tablets  from  his  dressing-room  for 
the  daily  inspection  of  the  Empress.  The  intended  impris- 
onment of  Catharine,  jotted  down  among  other  memoranda, 
was  thus  revealed  to  her,  whereupon  she  incontinently  poi- 
soned him.  This  story  has  been  sufficiently  disproved.  It  is 
hardly  worth  disproving;  for  it  is  not  probable  that  a  man 
who  had  suddenly  made  this  discovery  of  the  guilt  of  a  woman 
who  had  just  been  crowned  as  empress,  and  whom  he  had 
now  determined  to  imprison  for  life,  instead  of  designating 
her  as  his  successor,  would  require  to  make  any  memorandum 
of  the  matter.  And  yet  we  are  expected  to  believe  that  an 
entry  was  found  upon  Peter's  tablets  almost  literally  to  this 
effect :  "  Mem.  To  repudiate  my  wife,  shave  her  head,  and 
lock  her  up  in  a  convent " ;  as  if  otherwise  the  matter  would 
have  slipped  his  memory.  How  is  it  possible  that  our  friend 
De  Custine  has  allowed  this  story  to  escape  him? 

In  the  vast  square  of  the  Admiralty  at  St.  Petersburg  stands 
the  celebrated  colossal  statue  of  Peter  the  Great.  Around 
him  are  palaces,  academies,  arsenals,  gorgeous  temples  with 
their  light  and  starry  cupolas  floating  up  like  painted  bal- 
loons, and  tall  spires  sheathed  in  gold,  and  flashing  like  pillars 
of  fire.  This  place,  which  is  large  enough  for  half  the  Rus- 
sian army  to  encamp  in,  is  bounded  upon  one  side  by  the 
Admiralty  building,  the  Winter  Palace,  and  the  Hermitage, 
the  fagades  of  the  three  extending  more  than  a  mile ;  in  front 
of  the  Winter  Palace  rises  the  red,  polished  granite  column 
of  Alexander,  the  largest  monolith  in  the  world;  from  the 
side  opposite  the  palace  radiate  three  great  streets  lined  with 
stately  and  imposing  buildings,  thronged  with  population,  and 
intersected  by  canals  which  are  all  bridged  with  iron ;  across 
the  square,  on  the  side  opposite  the  statue,  stands  the  Isaac's 
Church,  built  of  marble,  bronze,  granite,  and  gold,  and  stand- 
ing upon  a  subterranean  forest,  more  than  a  million  large 
trees  having  been  driven  into  the  earth  to  form  its  foundation. 
The  Emperor  faces  the  Neva,  which  pours  its  limpid  waters 


PETER  THE   GREAT 


345 


through  quays  of  solid  granite,  which  for  twenty-five  miles 
line  its  length  and  that  of  its  branches ;  and  beyond  the  river 
rise  in  full  veiw  the  Bourse,  the  Academy  of  Arts  and  Sciences, 
and  other  imposing  public  edifices. 

This  equestrian  statue  has  been  much  admired;  we  think 
justly  so.  The  action  of  the  horse  is  uncommonly  spirited 
and  striking,  and  the  position  of  the  Emperor  dignified  and 
natural.  He  waves  his  hand,  as  if,  Hke  a  Scythian  wizard  as 
he  was,  he  had  just  caused  this  mighty,  swarming  city,  with 
all  its  palaces  and  temples,  to  rise  like  a  vapor  from  the  frozen 
morasses  of  the  Neva  with  one  stroke  of  his  wand.  In  winter, 
by  moonlight,  when  the  whole  scene  is  lighted  by  the  still, 
cold  radiance  of  a  polar  midnight,  we  defy  anyone  to  pause  and 
gaze  upon  that  statue  without  a  vague  sensation  of  awe.  The 
Czar  seems  to  be  still  presiding  in  sculptured  silence  over  the 
colossal  work  of  his  hand ;  to  be  still  protecting  his  capital 
from  the  inundations  of  the  ocean,  and  his  empire  from  the 
flood  of  barbarism,  which  he  always  feared  would  sweep  over 
it  upon  his  death. 

"  How  shall  we  rank  him  upon  glory's  page?  " 

It  is  impossible  not  to  admire  his  genius,  his  indomitable 
energy,  his  unconquerable  will.  He  proposed  to  himself,  while 
yet  a  youth,  the  mighty  task  of  civilizing  his  country,  and  of 
converting  a  mongrel  Asiatic  empire  into  a  powerful  European 
state.  It  is  difficult  to  place  one's  self  in  the  right  position  to 
judge  him  correctly.  We  are  very  far  from  agreeing  with  the 
Marquis  de  Custine,  that  his  mistake  was  in  importing  his 
civilization.  Russia  had  waited  in  vain  quite  long  enough 
for  the  spontaneous  and  indigenous  germination  of  the  arts 
and  sciences.  Besides,  in  these  days  when  steam  is  so  rap- 
idly approximating  and  assimilating  the  different  parts  of  the 
earth  to  each  other,  when  railroads  are  opened  to  the  Red 
Sea,  and  steamers  paddle  by  the  Garden  of  Eden,  it  is  diffi- 
cult to  say  what  nation  will  long  retain  a  peculiar  and  appro- 
priate civilization  of  its  own.  That  the  Czar  opened  the  door 
to  Europe  and  the  ocean,  that  he  erected  a  granite  portal,  a 
triumphal  arch,  upon  his  western  frontier,  is  to  us  his  greatest 
merit.  If  Russia  is  to  be  civilized,  it  must  be  through  the 
influence  of  the  West;   if  Russia  is  to  be  free,  the  hymn  of 


346  MOTLEY 

liberty  will  never  be  wafted  to  her  ears  from  the  silent  deserts 
of  Asia,  or  the  sepulchral  stillness  of  China.  The  Emperor 
did  right  to  descend  from  his  Slavonic  throne,  and  to  go  abroad 
to  light  the  torch  of  civilization  in  more  favored  lands. 

But  while  we  admire  the  concentration  of  purpose  which 
sustained  him  throughout  his  labors,  we  cannot  help  deplor- 
ing the  great  and  fundamental  mistake  which  made  them  all 
comparatively  worthless.  A  despot  by  birth,  education,  and 
temperament,  he  had  never  the  most  gHmmering  notion  of 
the  existence  of  a  people.  In  Russia,  then  and  at  this  day, 
there  is  not  even  the  fiction  of  a  people.  Peter  had  a  correct 
idea  of  the  proper  sources  of  civilization :  he  knew  where  and 
how  to  collect  the  seeds ;  but  he  forgot  that  there  was  nobody 
to  civilize.  A  people  may  be  humanized,  cultivated,  brought 
to  any  degree  of  perfection  in  arts,  and  arms,  and  sciences; 
but  he  undertook  to  civilize  a  state  in  which  there  was  but 
one  man,  and  that  man  himself.  The  root  must  grow  before 
the  branches  and  the  foliage.  Of  this  the  autocrat  had  no 
idea.  He  had  already  annihilated  the  only  class  which  was 
not  composed  of  slaves.  With  one  stroke  of  his  sceptre  he 
had  demolished  the  feudal  nobility,  or  what  corresponded  in 
a  degree  to  the  feudal  nobility  of  Europe,  and  had  made  all 
social  rank  throughout  his  empire  to  depend  upon  service  to 
himself.  What  was  accomplished  at  a  later  day  in  western 
Europe,  in  the  midst  of  long  convulsions  and  struggles,  by 
the  upheaving  of  the  democracy,  was  effected  by  the  autocrat 
at  a  blow.  This  was  a  fatal  error.  There  were  slaves  enough 
before.  It  was  unnecessary  to  degrade  the  nobles.  But,  the 
more  closely  we  analyze  Peter's  character,  the  more  cogently 
we  are  compelled  to  conclude  that  his  actuating  motive  was 
rather  his  own  fame  than  the  good  of  his  country.  A  great 
peculiarity  of  his  ambition  was  that,  though  possessed  of  emi- 
nent military  talents  and  highly  successful  in  his  campaigns, 
he  seems  to  have  cared  but  little  for  the  certaminis  gaudia;  to 
have  taken  but  small  delight  in  battles  and  victories  for  them- 
selves; to  have  cared  little  for  conquest,  beyond  what  he  re- 
quired for  his  settled  purpose.  Conquering,  he  never  aspires 
to  be  a  conqueror;  victorious  over  the  greatest  general  of 
the  age,  he  is  ready  to  sheathe  his  sword  as  soon  as  the  object 
of  the  contest  is  attained.    His  ambition  was  to  be  a  founder, 


PETER  THE   GREAT  347 

and  he  never,  in  victory  or  defeat,  was  once  turned  aside  from 
his  purpose.  He  was  determined  to  advance  his  empire  to 
the  ocean,  to  create  a  new  capital,  and  to  implant  there  and 
throughout  his  empire  the  elements  of  European  civilization. 
If  his  ambition  had  flown  a  httle  higher,  had  he  determined 
to  regenerate  his  people,  the  real  civilization  of  his  empire 
would  have  followed  sooner  than  it  is  now  likely  to  do.  Of 
this  he  probably  never  dreamed.  He  was  a  despot  through- 
out. He  might  have  found  other  matters  in  England  worthy 
of  his  attention,  other  institutions  as  intimately  connected  with 
civilization  as  the  English  naval  architecture;  but  he  appears 
to  have  been  completely  indifferent  to  the  great  spectacle  pre- 
sented to  an  autocrat  by  a  constitutional  kingdom.  "  Are 
these  all  lawyers  ?  "  said  he,  one  day,  when  visiting  the  courts 
at  Westminster.  "  What  can  be  the  use  of  so  many  lawyers  ? 
I  have  but  two  in  my  empire,  and  I  mean  to  hang  one  of  them 
as  soon  as  I  get  back."  He  certainly  might  as  well  have  hung 
them  both;  a  country  without  law  has  very  Httle  need  of 
lawyers. 

It  was  because  his  country  was  inhabited  by  slaves,  and  not 
by  a  people,  that  it  was  necessary,  in  every  branch  of  his  great 
undertaking,  to  go  into  such  infinitesimal  details.  Our  ad- 
miration of  the  man's  power  is,  to  be  sure,  increased  by  a 
contemplation  of  the  extraordinary  versatility  of  his  genius, 
its  wide  grasp,  and  its  minute  perception;  but  we  regret  to 
see  so  much  elephantine  labor  thrown  away.  As  he  felt  him- 
self to  be  the  only  man  in  the  empire,  so  in  his  power  of  labor 
he  rises  to  a  demigod,  a  Hercules.  He  felt  that  he  must  do 
everything  himself,  and  he  did  everything.  He  fills  every 
military  post,  from  drummer  to  general,  from  cabin-boy  to 
admiral;  with  his  own  hand  he  builds  ships  of  the  line,  and 
navigates  them  himself  in  storm  and  battle;  he  superintends 
every  manufactory,  every  academy,  every  hospital,  every  pris- 
on; with  his  own  hand  he  pulls  teeth  and  draws  up  com- 
mercial treaties — wins  all  his  battles  with  his  own  sword,  at 
the  head  of  his  army,  and  sings  in  the  choir  as  chief  bishop 
and  head  of  his  church — models  all  his  forts,  sounds  all  his 
harbors,  draws  maps  of  his  own  dominions,  all  with  his  own 
hand — regulates  the  treasury  of  his  empire  and  the  account- 
books  of  his  shopkeepers,  teaches  his  subjects  how  to  behave 


348  MOTLEY 

themselves  in  assemblies,  prescribes  the  length  of  their  coat- 
skirts,  and  dictates  their  religious  creed.  If,  instead  of  con- 
tenting himself  with  slaves  who  only  aped  civilization,  he  had 
striven  to  create  a  people  capable  and  worthy  of  culture,  he 
might  have  spared  himself  all  these  minute  details ;  he  would 
have  produced  less  striking,  instantaneous  effects,  but  his 
work  would  have  been  more  durable,  and  his  fame  more  ele- 
vated. His  was  one  of  the  monarch  minds,  who  coin  their 
age  and  stamp  it  with  their  image  and  superscription;  but 
his  glory  would  have  been  greater  if  he  had  thought  less  of 
himself,  and  more  of  the  real  interests  of  his  country.  If  he 
had  attempted  to  convert  his  subjects  from  cattle  into  men, 
he  need  not  have  been  so  eternally  haunted  by  the  phantom 
of  returning  barbarism,  destroying  after  his  death  all  the  labor 
of  his  lifetime,  and  which  he  could  exorcise  only  by  shedding 
the  blood  of  his  son.  Viewed  from  this  position,  his  colossal 
grandeur  dwindles.  It  seems  to  us  that  he  might  have  been 
so  much  more,  that  his  possible  seems  to  dwarf  his  actual 
achievements.  He  might  have  been  the  creator  and  the  law- 
giver of  a  people.  He  was,  after  all,  only  a  tyrant  and  a  city- 
builder.  Even  now,  his  successors  avert  their  eyes  from  the 
West.  The  city  of  his  love  is  already  in  danger  from  more 
potent  elements  than  water.  New  and  dangerous  ideas  fly 
through  that  magnificent  western  gateway.  When  the  portal 
is  closed,  the  keys  thrown  into  the  Baltic,  and  the  discarded 
Moscow  again  embraced,  how  much  fruit  will  be  left  from  the 
foreign  seeds  transplanted?  When  the  Byzantine  Empire  is 
restored,  perhaps  we  shall  see  their  ripened  development ;  the 
Russians  of  the  Lower  Empire  will  be  a  match  for  the  Greeks 
who  preceded  them. 

Still,  we  repeat,  it  is  difficult  to  judge  him  justly.  He  seems 
to  have  felt  a  certain  mission  confided  to  him  by  a  superior 
power.  His  object  he  accomplished  without  wavering,  with- 
out precipitation,  without  delay.  We  look  up  to  him  as  to  a 
giant,  as  we  see  him  striding  over  every  adversary,  over  every 
obstacle  in  his  path.  He  seems  in  advance  of  his  country,  of 
his  age,  of  himself.  In  his  exterior  he  is  the  great  prince, 
conqueror,  reformer;  in  his  interior,  the  Muscovite,  the  bar- 
barian. He  was  conscious  of  it  himself.  "  I  wish  to  reform 
my  empire,"  he  exclaimed,  upon  one  occasion,  "  and  I  can- 


PETER   THE   GREAT  349 

not  reform  myself."  In  early  life  his  pleasures  were  of  the 
grossest  character;  he  was  a  hard  drinker,  and  was  quarrel- 
some in  his  cups.  He  kicked  and  cufifed  his  ministers,  on  one 
occasion  was  near  cutting  the  throat  of  Lefort  in  a  paroxysm 
of  drunken  anger,  and  was  habitually  caning  Prince  Menshi- 
kofif.  But,  after  all,  he  did  reform  himself,  and,  in  the  latter 
years  of  his  life,  his  habits  were  abstemious  and  simple,  and 
his  days  and  nights  were  passed  in  labors  for  his  country  and 
his  fame. 

It  is  difficult  to  judge  him  justly.  Perhaps  it  would  have 
been  impossible  to  have  planted  even  the  germ  of  civil  or  even 
social  liberty  in  such  a  wilderness  as  Russia  was  at  his  acces- 
sion. It  was  something  to  lift  her  ever  so  little  above  the 
waves  of  barbarism,  where  he  found  her  "  many  fathoms  deep." 
He  accomplished  a  great  deal.  He  made  Russia  a  maritime 
country,  gave  her  a  navy  and  a  commercial  capital,  and  quad- 
rupled her  revenue ;  he  destroyed  the  Strelitzes,  he  crushed 
the  patriarch,  he  abolished  the  monastic  institutions  of  his  em- 
pire. If  he  had  done  nothing  else,  he  would,  for  these  great 
achievements,  deserve  the  eternal  gratitude  of  his  country. 


SOLITUDE 


BY 


HENRY    DAVID    THOREAU 


HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 
1817— 1862 

Concord,  Massachusetts,  so  rich  in  associations  both  literary  and  his- 
torical, was  the  birthplace  and  life-long  home  of  Henry  David  Thoreau. 
Born  in  1817,  he  was  educated  in  the  schools  of  his  native  town  and  in 
Boston,  and,  though  his  parents  were  poor,  he  was  enabled  to  go  to 
Harvard  College,  graduating  with  the  class  of  1837.  His  reading  and 
the  study  of  Greek  literature  made  a  deep  impression  on  him,  and  later 
he  endeavored  to  give  to  his  style  a  classical  conciseness  and  precision, 
and  often  with  notable  success.  For  a  time  after  his  graduation  he 
taught  school,  but  being  more  or  less  of  a  shiftless  nature,  he  soon  found 
another  and  more  congenial  occupation.  He  never  married.  For  two 
years  he  lived  with  Emerson  as  a  member  of  his  family,  and  although 
he  endeavored  not  to  be  a  mere  follower  of  the  great  author,  the  influ- 
ence of  the  literary  master  was  naturally  very  powerful  in  shaping  his 
mental  development.  In  1845  Thoreau  built  for  himself  a  modest  re- 
treat in  a  bit  of  woodland  belonging  to  Emerson  on  the  shore  of  Walden 
Pond,  where  he  lived  for  more  than  two  years.  He  told  his  friends 
that  in  thus  secluding  himself  his  object  was  "  to  transact  some  private 
business,"  or,  to  be  more  plain,  that  his  seclusion  concerned  no  one  but 
himself.  What  he  really  wanted  was  solitude,  partly  for  the  sake  of 
studying  nature  in  all  her  varying  moods  under  conditions  wholly  re- 
moved from  human  influences,  and  partly  that  he  might  write  at  leisure 
and  be  free  from  all  interruptions.  iHis  essay  on  "  Solitude  "  is  not  only 
characteristic  of  his  general  style  and  mode  of  thought,  but  is  also 
interesting  as  indicating  his  mood  in  this  remarkable  hermit  life  by 
Walden  Pond. 

On  his  return  to  civilization  Thoreau  set  about  to  find  a  publisher  for 
his  book,  and  after  a  long  search  succeeded.  In  1849  "  A  Week  on  the 
Concord  and  Merrimac  Rivers "  appeared.  The  public,  however,  did 
not  appreciate  this,  and  a  few  years  later  he  gathered  the  greater  part 
of  his  first  editions  and  stored  the  books  in  his  garret,  writing  in  his 
journal,  "  I  have  now  a  library  of  nearly  nine  hundred  volumes,  over 
seven  hundred  of  which  I  wrote  myself."  He  was  not  discouraged, 
however,  and  in  1854  published  a  second  book  under  the  title  of  "  Wal- 
den." This  book  is  the  one  by  which  Thoreau  is  now  best  known,  and 
it  contains  many  of  his  best  thoughts  and  an  exposition  of  his  own  char- 
acteristic philosophy.  It  was  the  last  of  his  books  published  during  his 
lifetime.  He  died  of  consumption  in  1862  at  the  age  of  forty-four.  Af- 
ter his  death  a  number  of  additional  volumes  were  published  by  collect- 
ing the  papers  he  had  published  in  various  magazines,  and  making  con- 
siderable extracts  from  the  journal  he  had  kept  for  thirty  years,  so  that 
now  there  are  eleven  volumes  in  the  authorized  edition  of  his  works. 

Thoreau's  reputation  rests  chiefly  on  the  great  gift  he  possessed  as 
an  inteja>''cte4u»#»n^tiire.  As  one  of  his  admirers  said,  "  he  talked  about 
nature  just  as  if  sne'd  been  born  and  brought  up  in  Concord."  No 
writer  ever  had  a  keener  power  of  observation  than  Thoreau,  and  his 
skill  in  giving  adequate  expression  to  his  observations  was  scarcely  less 
remarkable.  His  choice  of  words  is  always  felicitous,  his  use  of  quota- 
tions strikingly  apt,  and  many  of  his  phrases  and  sentences  are  perfect 
examples  of  English  composition.  His  chosen  field  was  unique,  as  was 
his  own  personal  character.  Thus  he  has  given  us  much  in  his  books 
which  he  alone  could  give,  and  for  the  lack  of  which  American  literature 
would  be  decidedly  poorer. 


352 


SOLITUDE 

THIS  is  a  delicious  evening,  when  the  whole  body  wt  one 
sense,  and  imbibes  delight  through  every  pore.  I  go 
and  come  with  a  strange  liberty  in  nature,  a  part  of  her- 
self. As  I  walk  along  the  stony  shore  of  the  pond  in  my  shirt 
sleeves,  though  it  is  cool  as  well  as  cloudy  and  windy,  and  I  see 
nothing  special  to  attract  me,  all  the  elements  are  unusually  con- 
genial to  me.  The  bullfrogs  trump  to  usher  in  the  night,  and 
the  note  of  the  whippoorwill  is  borne  on  the  rippling  wind  from 
over  the  water.  Sympathy  with  the  fluttering  alder  and  poplar 
leaves  almost  takes  away  my  breath;  yet,  like Jjie4ake,^niy 
serenity  is  rippled  but  not  ruffled.  These  small  waves  raised  by 
the  evening  wind  are  as  remote  from  storm  as  the  smooth  re- 
flecting surface.  Though  it  is  now  dark,  the  wind  still  blows 
and  roars  in  the  wood,  the  waves  still  dash,  and  some  creatures 
lull  the  rest  with  their  notes.  The  repose  is  never  complete. 
The  wildest  animals  do  not  repose,  but  seek  their  prey  now ;  the 
fox,  and  skunk,  and  rabbit  now  roam  the  fields  and  woods  with- 
out fear.  They  are  nature's  watchmen — links  which  connect 
the  days  of  animated  life. 

When  I  return  to  my  house  I  find  that  visitors  have  been 
there  and  left  their  cards,  either  a  bunch  of  flowers,  or  a  wreath 
of  evergreen,  or  a  name  in  pencil  on  a  yellow  walnut  leaf  or  a 
chip.  They  who  come  rarely  to  the  woods  take  some  little  piece 
of  the  forest  int6  their  hands  to  play  with  by  the  way,  which 
they  leave,  either  intentionally  or  accidentally.  One  has  peeled 
a  willow  wand,  woven  it  into  a  ring,  and  dropped  it  on  my 
table.  I  could  alway^feirtf  visitors  had  called*  in  my  absence, 
either  by  the  bended  twigs  or  grass,  or  the  print  of  their  shoes, 
and  generally  of  what  sex  or  age  or  quality  they  were  by  some 
slight  trace  left,  as  a  flower  dropped,  or  a  bunch  of  grass  plucked 
and  thrown  away,  even  as  far  off  as  the  railroad,  half  a  mile 
distant,  or  by  the  lingering  odor  of  a  cigar  or  pipe.  Nay,  I  was 
23  353 


354 


THOREAU 


frequently  notified  of  the  passage  of  a  traveller  along  the  high- 
way sixty  rods  off  by  the  scent  of  his  pipe. 

There  is  commonly  sufficient  space  about  us.  Our  horizon 
is  never  quite  at  our  elbows.  The  thick  wood  is  not  just  at  our 
door,  nor  the  pond,  but  somewhat  is  always  clearing,  familiar 
and  worn  by  us,  appropriated  and  fenced  in  some  way,  and  re- 
claimed from  nature.  For  what  reason  have  I  this  vast  range 
an^l  circuit,  some  square  miles  of  unfrequented  forest,  for  my 
pricey,  abandoned  to  me  by  men?  My  nearest  neighbor  is  a 
mile  distant,  and  no  house  is  visible  from  any  place  but  the  hill- 
tops within  half  a  mile  of  my  own.  I  have  my  horizon  bounded 
by  woods  all  to  myself ;  a  distant  view  of  the  railroad  where  it 
touches  the  pond  on  the  one  hand,  and  of  the  fence  which  skirts 
the  woodland  road  on  the  other.  But  for  the  most  part  it  is  as 
solitary  where  I  live  as  on  the  prairies.  It  is  as  much  Asia 
or  Africa  as  New  England.  I  have,  as  it  were,  my  own  sun  and 
moon  and  stars,  and  a  little  world  all  to  myself.  At  night  there 
was  never  a  traveller  passed  my  house,  or  knocked  at  my  door, 
more  than  if  I  were  the  first  or  last  man ;  unless  it  were  in  the 
spring,  when  at  long  intervals  some  came  from  the  village  to 
fish  for  pouts — they  plainly  fished  much  more  in  the  Walden 
Pond  of  their  own  natures,  and  baited  their  hooks  with  darkness 
— but  they  soon  retreated,  usually  with  light  baskets,  and  left 
"  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me,"  and  the  black  kernel  of  the 
night  was  never  profaned  by  any  human  neighborhood.  I  he-f 
lieve  that  men  are  generally  still  a  little  afraid  of  the  dark,/ 
though  the  witches  are  all  hanged  and  Christianity  and  candles  \ 
have  been  introduced. 

Yet  I  experienced  sometimes  that  the  most  sweet  and  tender, 
the  most  innocent  and  encouraging  society  may  be  found  in  any 
natural  object,  even  for  the  poor  misanthroj^e  and  most  melan- 
choly man.  There  can  bej3pjLery-l5!acF^irnchqly  to  him  who^ 
lives  in  the  midst  of  nature  and  has  his  senses  still.  V  There  was 
never  yet  such  a  stormlDut  it  was  T^olian  music  to  a  healthy  and 
innocent  ear.  \  Nothing  can  rightly  compel  a  simple  brave  man 
to  a  vulgar  sadness.  While  I  enjoy  the  friendship  of  the  sea- 
sons I  trust  that  nothing"  can  make  life  a  burden  to  me.  The 
gentle  rain  which  waters  my  beans  and  keeps  me  in  the  house 
to-day  is  not  drear  and  melancholy,  but  good  for  me,  too. 
Though  it  prevents  my  hoeing  them,  it  is  of  far  more  worth  than 


SOLITUDE 


355 


my  hoeing.  If  it  should  continue  so  long  as  to  cause  the  seeds 
to  rot  in  the  ground  and  destroy  the  potatoes  in  the  low  lands,  it 
would  still  be  good  for  the  grass  on  the  uplands,  and,  being 
good  for  the  grass,  it  would  be  good  for  me.  Sometimes,  when 
I  compare  myself  with  other  men,  it  seems  as  if  I  were  more 
favored  by  the  gods  than  they,  beyond  anyl  deserts/that  I  am 
conscious  of ;  as  if  I  had  a  warrant  and  surety  at  their  hands 
which  my  fellows  have  not,  and  were  especially  guided  and 
guarded.  I  do  not  flatter  myself,  but  if  it  be  possible  they^flat- 
ter  me.  I  have  never  felt  lonesome,  or  in  the  least  oppressed  by 
a  sense  of  solitude,  but  once,  and  that  was  a  few  weeks  after  I 
came  to  the  woods,  when,  for  an  hour,  I  doubted  if  the  near 
neighborhood  of  man  was  not  essential  to  a  serene  and  healthy 
life.  To  be  alone  was  something  unpleasant.  But  I  was  at  the 
same  time  conscious  of  a  slight  insanity  in  my  mood,  and  seemed 
to  foresee  my  recovery.  In  the  midst  of  a  gentle  rain  while  these 
thoughts  prevailed,  I  was  suddenly  sensible  of  such  sweet  and 
beneficent  society  in  nature,  in  the  very  pattering  of  the  drops, 
and  in  every  sound  and  sight  around  my  house,  an  infinite  and 
unaccountable  friendliness  all  at  once  like  an  atmosphere  sus- 
taining me,  as  made  the  fancied  advantages  of  human  neighbor- 
hood insignificant,  and  I  have  never  thought  of  them  since. 
1  Every  little  pine  needle  expanded  and  swelled  with  sympathy 
^and  befriended  me.  I  was  so  distinctly  made  aware  of  the  pres- 
ence of  something  kindred  to  me,  even  in  scenes  which  we  are 
accustomed  to  call  wild  and  dreary,  and  also  that  the  nearest  of 
blood  to  me  and  humanest  was  not  a  person  nor  a  villager,  that 
I  thought  no  place  could  ever  be  strange  to  me  again. 


Mourning  untimely  consumes  the  sad ; 
Few  are  their  days  in  the  land  of  the  living, 
Beautiful  daughter  of  Toscar." 


i 


Some  of  my  pleasantest  hours  were  during  the  long  rain 
storms  in  the  spring  or  fall,  which  confined  me  to  the  house  for 
the  afternoon  as  well  as  the  forenoon,  soothed  by  their  cease- 
less roar  and  pelting ;  when  an  early  twilight  ushered  in  a  long 
evening  in  which  many  thoughts  had  time  to  take  root  and 
unfold  themselves.  In  those  driving  northeast  rains  which  tried 
the  village  houses  so,  when  the  maids  stood  ready  with  mop  and 
pail  in  front  entries  to  keep  the  deluge  out,  I  sat  behind  my 


356  THOREAU 

door  in  my  little  house,  which  was  all  entry,  and  thoroughly  en- 
joyed its  protection.  In  one  heavy  thunder  shower  the  lightning 
struck  a  large  pitch-pine  across  the  pond,  making  a  very  con- 
spicuous and  perfectly  regular  spiral  groove  from  top  to  bottom, 
an  inch  or  more  deep,  and  four  or  five  inches  wide,  as  you  would 
groove  a  walking-stick.  I  passed  it  again  the  other  day,  and  was 
struck  with  awe  on  looking  up  and  beholding  that  mark,  now 
more  distinct  than  ever,  where  a  terrific  and  resistless  bolt  came 
down  out  of  the  harmless  sky  eight  years  ago.  Men  frequently 
say  to  me,  "  I  should  think  you  would  feel  lonesome  down  there, 
and  want  to  be  nearer  to  folks,  rainy  and  snowy  days  and  nights 
especially."  I  am  tempted  to  reply  to  such :  This  whole  earth 
which  we  inhabit  is  but  a  point  in  space.  How  far  apart,  think 
you,  dwell  the  two  most  distant  inhabitants  of  yonder  star,  the 
breadth  of  whose  disk  cannot  be  appreciated  by  our  instruments  ? 
Why  should  I  feel  lonely  ?  Is  not  our  planet  in  the  Milky  Way  ? 
This  which  you  put  seems  to  me  not  to  be  the  most  important 
question.  What  sort  of  space  is  that  which  separates  a  man 
from  his  fellows  and  makes  him  solitary  ?  I  have  found  that  no 
exertion  of  the  legs  can  bring  two  minds  much  nearer  to  one 
another.  What  do  we  want  most  to  dwell  near  to  ?  Not  to  many 
men  surely,  the  depot,  the  post-ofiice,  the  bar-room,  the  meet- 
ing-house, the  school-house,  the  grocery.  Beacon  Hill,  or  the 
Five  Points,  where  men  most  congregate,  but  to  the  perennial 
source  of  our  life,  whence  in  all  our  experience  we  have  found 
that  to  issue,  as  the  willow  stands  near  the  water  and  sends  out 
its  roots  in  that  direction.  This  will  vary  with  different  natures, 
.  but  this  is  the  place  where  a  wise  man  will  dig  his  cellar.    .    .    . 

one  evening  overtook  one  of  my  townsmen,  who  has  accumu- 
lated what  is  called  *'  a  handsome  property  " — though  I  never 
got  a  fair  view  of  it — on  the  Walden  road,  driving  a  pair  of 
cattle  to  market,  who  inquired  of  me  how  I  could  bring  my 
mind  to  give  up  so  many  of  the  comforts  of  life.  I  answered 
that  I  was  very  sure  I  liked  it  passably  well ;  I  was  not  joking. 
And  so  I  went  home  to  my  bed,  and  left  him  to  pick  his  way 
through  the  darkness  and  the  mud  to  Brighton — or  Brighttown 
— which  place  he  would  reach  some  time  in  the  morning. 

Any  prospect  of  awakening  or  coming  to  life  to  a  dead  man 
makes  indifferent  all  times  and  places.  The  place  where  that 
may  occur  is  always  the  same,  and  indescribably  pleasant  to  all 


SOLITUDE  357 

our  senses.  For  the  most  part  we  allow  only  outlying  and  tran- 
sient circumstances  to  make  our  occasions.  They  are,  in  fact, 
the  cause  of  our  distraction.  Nearest  to  all  things  is  that  power 
which  fashions  their  being.  Next  to  us  the  grandest  laws  are 
continually  being  executed.  Next  to  us  is  not  the  workman 
whom  we  have  hired,  with  whom  we  love  so  well  to  talk,  but 
the  workman  whose  work  we  are. 

"  How  vast  and  profound  is  the  influence  of  the  subtile  powers 
of  heaven  and  of  earth !  " 

y  "  We  seek  to  perceive  them,  and  we  do  not  see  them ;  we  seek 
/to  hear  them,  and  we  do  not  hear  them ;  identified  with  the  sub- 
Jstance  of  things,  they  cannot  be  separated  from  them." 

"  They  cause  that  in  all  the  universe  men  purify  and  sanctify 
their  hearts,  and  clothe  themselves  in  their  holiday  garments  to 
offer  sacrifices  and  oblations  to  their  ancestors.  It  is  an  ocean 
of  subtile  intelligences.  They  are  everywhere,  above  us,  on  our 
left,  on  our  right ;  they  environ  us  on  all  sides." 

We  are  the  subjects  of  an  experiment  which  is  not  a  little 
interesting  to  me.  Can  we  not  do  without  the  society  of  our 
gossips  a  little  while  under  these  circumstances — have  our  own 
thoughts  to  cheer  us  ?  Confucius  says  truly,  "  Virtue  does  not 
remain  as  an  abandoned  orphan;  it  must  of  necessity  have 
neighbors." 

With  thinking  we  may  be  beside  ourselves  in  a  sane  sense. 
-^XiL£<^^'^^^^"'»  pffnr.t^f  the  mind  we  can  stand  aloof  from  ac- 
tions^ and  their  consequences ;  and  ail  things,  good  and  bai-§Qu 
hj^^^uTlike  a Jtor rent'  We  are  not  wholly  involved  in  nature.  I 
may  Tie  either  the  drift-wood  in  the  stream,  or  Indra  in  the 
sky  looking  down  on  it.  I  may  be  affected  by  a  theatrical  ex- 
hibition ;  on  the  other  hand,  I  may  not  be  affected  by  an  actual 
event  which  appears  to  concern  me  much  more.  I  onlv  know 
jQYS^  ao  Q  h-umaiL^ntity ;  the  scene,  so  to  speak,  of  thoughts 
and  affectionsj;^  and  am  sensible  of  a  certain  doubleness  by^ 
whicKT^^n,. stand  as  remote  from  myself . as"from  another7_ 
ETowever  intense  my  experience,  I  am  conscious  of  the  presence 
and  criticism  of  a  part  of  me,  which,  as  it  were,  is  not  a  part 
of  me,  but  spectator,  sharing  no  experience,  but  taking  note 
of  it ;  and  that  is  no  more  I  than  it  is  you.  When  the  play,  it 
may  be  the  tragedy,  of  life  is  over,  the  spectator  goes  his  way. 
It  was  a  kind  of  fiction,  a  work  of  the  imagination  only,  so  far 


358  THOREAU 

as  he  was  concerned.    This  doubleness  may  easily  make  us  poor 
neighbors  and  friends  sometimes. 

I  find  it  wholesome  to  be  alone  the  greater  part  of  the  time. 
To  be  in  company,  even  with  the  best,  is  soon  wearisome  and 
dissipating.  I  love  to  be  alone.  J^O£V£X  ioUJadJMjiiimi^an^ 
^latjivas^so  companion  We  are  for  the  most 

part  more  lonely  when  we  go  abroad  among  men  than  when  we 
stay  in  our  chambers.  A  man  thinking  or  working  is  always 
alone,  let  him  be  where  he  will.  Solkudejs^noUrieasured^  bjM.h^ 
miles  of  space  that  intervene  between  a  man  and  his  fellows. 
The  really  diligent  student  in  one  of  the  crowded  hives  of  Cam- 
bridge College  is  as  solitary  as  a  dervish  in  the  desert.,  ^.The  • 
farmer  can  work  alone  in  the  field  or  the  woods  all  day,  hoeing 
or  chopping,  and  not  feel  lonesome,  because  he  is  employed ; 
but  when  he  comes  home  at  night  he  cannot  sit  down  in  a  room 
alone,  at  the  mercy  of  his  thoughts,  but  must  be  where  he  can 
"  see  the  folks,"  and  recreate,  and  as  he  thinks  remunerate,  him- 
self for  his  day's  solitude ;  and  hence  he  wonders  how  the  stu- 
dent can  sit  alone  in  the  house  all  night  and  most  of  the  day 
without  ennui  and  "  the  blues  " ;  but  he  does  not  realize  that  the 
student,  though  in  the  house,  is  still  at  work  in  his  field,  and 
chopping  in  his  woods,  as  the  farmer  in  his,  and  in  turn  seeks  the 
same  recreation  and  society  that  the  latter  does,  though  it  may 
be  a  more  condensed  form  of  it. 

Society  is  commonly  too  cheap.  We  meet  at  very  short  inter- 
vals, not  having  had  time  to  acquire  any  new  value  for  each 
other.  We  meet  at  meals  three  times  a  day,  and  give  each  other 
a  new  taste  of  that  old  musty  cheese  that  we  are.  We  have  had 
to  agree  on  a  certain  set  of  rules,  called  etiquette  and  politeness, 
to  make  this  frequent  meeting  tolerable  and  that  we  need  not 
come  to  open  war.  We  meet  at  the  post-office,  and  at  the  socia- 
ble, and  about  the  fireside  every  night;  we  live  thick  and  are 
in  each  other's  way,  and  stumble  over  one  another,  and  I  think 
that  we  thus  lose  some  respect  for  one  another.  Certainly  less 
frequency  would  suffice  for  all  important  and  hearty  communi- 
cations. Consider  the  girls  in  a  factory — never  alone,  hardly 
in  their  dreams.  It  would  be  better  if  there  were  but  one  inhabi- 
tant to  a  square  mile,  as  where  I  live.  'IHis.jialiie.of-a -iiiaii^s--. 
not  in  hisskm^Jh^tJW£L.sh^ 
'^^liaveTieardof  a  man  lost  in  the  woods  and  dying  of  famine 


SOLITUDE  359 

and  exhaustion  at  the  foot  of  a  tree,  whose  loneliness  was  re- 
lieved by  the  grotesque  visions  with  which,  owing  to  bodily 
weakness,  his  diseased  imagination  surrounded  him,  and  which 
he  believed  to  be  real.  So  also,  owing  to  bodily  and  mental 
health  and  strength,  we  may  be  continually  cheered  by  a  like  but 
more  normal  and  natural  society,  and  come  to  know  that  we 
are  never  alone. 

I  have  a  great  deal  of  company  in  my  house ;  especially  in  the 
morning,  when  nobody  calls.  Let  me  suggest  a  few  compari- 
sons, that  some  one  may  convey  an  idea  of  my  situation.  I  am 
no  more  lonely  than  the  loon  in  the  pond  that  laughs  so  loud, 
or  than  Walden  Pond  itself.  What  company  has  that  lonely 
lake,  I  pray?  And  yet  it  has  not  the  blue  devils,  but  the  blue 
angels  in  it,  in  the  azure  tint  of  its  waters.  The  sun  is  alone, 
except  in  thick  weather,  when  there  sometimes  appear  to  be  two, 
but  one  is  a  mock  sun.  God  is  alone — but  the  devil,  he  is  far 
from  being  alone ;  he  sees  a  great  deal  of  company ;  he  is  legion. 
I  am  no  more  lonely  than  a  single  mullein  or  dandehon  in  a 
pasture,  or  a  bean  leaf,  or  sorrel,  or  a  horse-fly,  or  a  humble- 
bee.  I  am  no  more  lonely  than  the  Mill  Brook,  or  a  weather- 
cock, or  the  north  star,  or  the  south  wind,  or  an  April  shower, 
or  a  January  thaw,  or  the  first  spider  in  a  new  house. 

I  have  occasional  visits  in  the  long  winter  evenings,  when  the 
snow  falls  fast  and  the  wind  howls  in  the  wood,  from  an  old 
settler  and  original  proprietor,  who  is  reported  to  have  dug 
Walden  Pond,  and  stoned  it,  and  fringed  it  with  pine  woods ; 
who  tells  me  stories  of  old  time  and  of  new  eternity ;  and  be- 
tween us  we  manage  to  pass  a  cheerful  evening  with  social 
mirth  and  pleasant  views  of  things,  even  without  apples  or  cider 
— a  most  wise  and  humorous  friend,  whom  I  love  much,  who 
keeps  himself  more  secret  than  ever  did  Goff  e  or  Whalley ;  and 
though  he  is  thought  to  be  dead,  none  can  show  where  he  is 
buried.  An  elderly  dame,  too,  dwells  in  my  neighborhood,  in- 
visible to  most  persons,  in  whose  odorous  herb  garden  I  love 
to  stroll  sometimes,  gathering  simples  and  listening  to  her 
fables;  for  she  has  a  genius  of  unequalled  fertility,  and  her 
memory  runs  back  farther  than  mythology,  and  she  can  tell  me 
the  original  of  every  fable,  and  on  what  fact  every  one  is  founded, 
for  the  incidents  occurred  when  she  was  young.  A  ruddy  and 
lusty  old  dame,  who  delights  in  all  weathers  and  seasons^  and  is 
likely  to  outlive  all  her  children  yet. 


360  THOREAU 

The  indescribable  innocence  and  beneficence  of  nature — of 
sun  and  wind  and  rain,  of  summer  and  winter — such  health,  such 
cheer,  they  afford  forever!  and  such  sympathy  have  they  ever 
with  our  race,  that  all  nature  would  be  affected,  and  the  sun's 
brightness  fade,  and  the  winds  would  sigh  humanely,  and  the 
clouds  rain  tears,  and  the  woods  shed  their  leaves  and  put  on 
mourning  in  midsummer,  if  any  man  should  ever  for  a  just  cause 
grieve.  Shall  I  not  have  intelligence  with  the  earth?  Am  I 
not  partly  leaves  and  vegetable  mould  myself  ? 

What  is  the  pill  which  will  keep  us  well,  serene,  contented? 
Not  my  or  thy  great-grandfather's,  but  our  great-grandmother 
nature's  universal,  vegetable,  botanic  medicines,  by  which  she 
has  kept  herself  young  always,  outlived  so  many  old  Parrs  in  her 
day,  and  fed  her  health  with  their  decaying  fatness.  For  my 
panacea,  instead  of  one  of  those  quack  vials  of  a  mixture  dipped 
from  Acheron  and  the  Dead  Sea,  which  come  out  of  those  long 
shallow  black  schooner-looking  wagons  which  we  sometimes  see 
made  to  carry  bottles,  let  me  have  a  draught  of  undiluted  morn- 
ing air.  Morning  air !  If  men  will  not  drink  of  this  at  the  foun- 
tain-head of  the  day,  why,  then,  we  must  even  bottle  up  some 
and  sell  it  in  the  shops,  for  the  benefit  of  those  who  have  lost  their 
subscription  ticket  to  morning  time  in  this  world.  But  remem- 
ber, it  will  not  keep  quite  till  noonday  even  in  the  coolest  cellar, 
but  diive  out  the  stopples  long  ere  that  and  follow  westward 
the  steps  of  Aurora.  I  am  no  worshipper  of  Hygeia,  who  was 
the  daughter  of  that  old  herb-doctor  ^Esculapius,  and  who  is 
represented  on  monuments  holding  a  serpent  in  one  hand,  and 
in  the  other  a  cup  out  of  which  the  serpent  sometimes  drinks ; 
but  rather  of  Hebe,  cupbearer  to  Jupiter,  who  was  the  daughter 
of  Juno  and  wild  lettuce,  and  who  had  the  power  of  restoring 
gods  and  men  to  the  vigor  of  youth.  She  was  probably  the  only 
thoroughly  sound-conditioned,  healthy,  and  robust  young  lady 
that  ever  walked  the  globe,  and  wherever  she  came  it  was 
spring. 


MACAULAY 


BY 


EDWIN     PERCY    WHIPPLE 


EDWIN  PERCY  WHIPPLE 
1819— 1886 

Edwin  Percy  Whipple  was  born  at  Gloucester,  Massachusetts,  in  1819. 
He  received  his  early,  and,  indeed,  his  only  school  education  in  the  pub- 
lic schools  of  Salem.  When  a  boy  he  set  out  for  Boston  to  begin  life 
on  his  own  account  as  a  broker's  clerk.  He  soon  became  a  member 
of  the  Mercantile  Library  Association,  and  it  was  in  the  debates  and 
literary  exercises  carried  on  under  the  auspices  of  this  institution  that 
he  acquired  his  first  taste  for  literature.  This  was,  in  fact,  his  uni- 
versity course,  and  his  later  works  often  show  traces  of  his  early  train- 
ing in  these  youthful  debates.  In  1843  he  published  his  essay  on  "  Ma- 
caulay."  This  has  a  twofold  interest,  inasmuch  as  it  was  his  first 
serious  attempt  at  literary  work,  and  in  the  second  place  we  plainly  see 
here  that  Macaulay  was,  consciously  or  unconsciously,  the  great  master 
after  whom  Whipple  modelled  his  own  literary  style. 

In  i860  Whipple  abandoned  all  business  pursuits  to  devote  himself 
exclusively  to  literature.  With  the  exception  of  Richard  Grant  White, 
he  was  for  many  years  the  only  American  man  of  letters  gaining  a  live- 
lihood as  a  professional  critic.  He  contributed  regularly  to  a  number 
of  prominent  literary  magazines  and  reviews,  notably,  the  "  North 
American  Review,"  the  "  Christian  Examiner,"  ^  and  the  "  Atlantic 
Monthly."  He  lectured  frequently  on  literary  topics,  and  was  univer- 
sally received  with  favor  and  appreciation.  The  most  important  of  his 
essays  were  collected  by  him  in  two  volumes  during  his  lifetime,  and 
published  under  the  titles,  "Essays  and  Reviews"  (1848),  and  "Lit- 
erature of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth  "  (1869).  A  number  of  other  volumes, 
made  up  of  collections  from  his  miscellaneous  writings,  are  now  in- 
cluded in  the  nine  volumes  of  his  published  works.    He  died  in  1886. 

Whipple's  style  is  not  faultless,  although,  as  a  rule,  it  is  polished  and 
clear,  and  at  times  even  brilliant  and  epigrammatic.  He  possesses  the 
art  of  making  trite  subjects  interesting  to  his  hearers  in  a  manner  en- 
tirely his  own.  His  critical  judgments  are  usually  sound,  and  his  writ- 
ings seem  justly  entitled  to  be  accorded  a  place  in  the  literature  of  his 
country. 


362 


MACAULAY 

IT  is  impossible  to  cast  even  a  careless  glarrce  over  the  litera- 
ture of  the  last  thirty  years  ^  without  perceiving  the  prom- 
inent station  occupied  by  critics,  reviewers,  and  essayists. 
Criticism,  in  the  old  days  of  monthly  reviews  and  gentlemen's 
magazines,  was  quite  an  humble  occupation,  and  was  chiefly 
monopolized  by  the  "  barren  rascals  "  of  letters,  who  scribbled, 
sinned,  and  starved,  in  attics  and  cellars ;  but  it  has  since  been 
almost  exalted  into  a  creative  art,  and  numbers  among  its  pro- 
fessors some  of  the  most  accomplished  writers  of  the  age.  Den- 
nis, Rhymer,  Winstanley,  Theophilus  Gibber,  Griffiths,  and 
other  "  eminent  hands,"  as  well  as  the  nameless  contributors  to 
defunct  periodicals,  have  departed,  body  and  soul,  and  left  not 
a  wreck  behind;  and  their  places  have  been  supplied  by  such 
men  as  Goleridge,  Garlyle,  Macaulay,  Lamb,  Hazlitt,  Jeffrey, 
Wilson,  Gifford,  Mackintosh,  Sydney  Smith,  Hallam,  Campbell, 
Talfourd,  and  Brougham.  Indeed,  every  celebrated  writer  of 
the  present  century,  without,  it  is  believed,  a  solitary  exception, 
has  dabbled  or  excelled  in  criticism.  It  has  been  the  road  to 
fame  and  profit,  and  has  commanded  both  applause  and  guineas, 
when  the  unfortunate  objects  of  it  have  been  blessed  with 
neither.  Many  of  the  strongest  minds  of  the  age  will  leave  no 
other  record  behind  them  than  critical  essays  and  popular 
speeches.  To  those  who  have  made  criticism  a  business,  it  has 
led  to  success  in  other  professions.  The  "  Edinburgh  Review," 
which  took  the  lead  in  the  establishment  of  the  new  order  of 
things,  was  projected  in  a  lofty  attic  by  two  briefless  barristers 
and  a  titheless  parson ;  the  former  are  now  lords,  and  the  latter 
is  a  snug  prebendary,  rejoicing  in  the  reputation  of  being  the 
divinest  wit  and  wittiest  divine  of  the  age.  That  celebrated 
journal  made  reviewing  more  respectable  than  authorship.  It 
was  started  at  a  time  when  the  degeneracy  of  literature  de- 

»  [This   essay  was   first  published   in  the  Boston  "  Miscellany,"  in  Februarj^ 
1843.— Editor.] 

363 


364  WHIPPLE 

manded  a  sharp  vein  of  criticism.  Its  contributors  were  men 
who  possessed  talents  and  information,  and  so  far  held  a  slight 
advantage  over  most  of  those  they  reviewed.  Grub  Street  quar- 
terly quaked  to  its  foundations,  as  the  northern  comet  shot  its 
portentous  glare  into  the  dark  alleys  where  bathos  and  puerility 
buzzed  and  hived.  The  citizens  of  Brussels,  on  the  night  previ- 
ous to  Waterloo,  were  hardly  more  terror-struck  than  the  vast 
array  of  fated  authors  who,  every  three  months,  waited  the 
appearance  of  the  baleful  luminary,  and,  starting  at  every  sound 
which  betokened  its  arrival, 

"  Whispered  with  white  lips,  the  foe !  it  comes !   it  comes !  " 

In  the  early  and  palmy  days  of  the  "  Review,"  when  review- 
ers were  wits,  and  writers  were  hacks,  the  shore  of  the  great 
ocean  of  books  was  "  heaped  with  the  damned  like  pebbles." 
Like  an  "  eagle  in  a  dovecote,"  it  fluttered  the  leaves  of  the 
Minerva  Press,  and  stifled  the  weak  notes  of  imbecile  elegance, 
and  the  dull  croak  of  insipid  vulgarity,  learned  ignorance,  and 
pompous  humility.  The  descent  of  Attila  on  the  Roman  empire 
was  not  a  more  awful  visitation  to  the  Italians  than  the  fell 
swoop  of  the  "  Edinburgh  Review  "  on  the  degenerate  denizens 
of  Grub  Street  and  Paternoster  Row.  It  carried  ruin  and  dev- 
astation whithersoever  it  went,  and  in  many  cases  it  carried 
those  severe  but  providential  dispensations  to  the  right  places, 
and  made  havoc  consistent  both  with  political  and  poetic  justice. 
The  Edinburgh  reviewers,  indeed,  were  found  not  to  be  of  the 
old  school  of  critics.  They  were  not  contented  with  the  humble 
task  of  chronicling  the  appearance  of  books,  and  meekly  con- 
densing their  weak  contents  for  the  edification  of  lazy  heads ; 
but  when  they  deigned  to  read  and  analyze  the  work  they 
judged,  they  sought  rather  for  opportunities  to  display  their  own 
wit  and  knowledge,  than  to  flatter  the  vanity  of  the  author,  or  to 
increase  his  readers.  Many  of  their  most  splendid  articles  were 
essays  rather  than  reviews.  The  writer  whose  work  afforded 
the  name  of  the  subject  was  summarily  disposed  of  in  a  quiet 
sneer,  a  terse  sarcasm,  or  a  faint  panegyric,  and  the  remainder 
of  the  article  hardly  recognized  his  existence.  It  is  to  these 
purely  original  contributions,  written  by  men  of  the  first  order 
of  talent,  that  the  "  Review  "  owes  most  of  its  reputation ;  and 
their  frequent  appearance  has  exalted  it  above  all  other  period- 


ESSAY   ON    MACAULAY  365 

icals  of  the  age,  and  has  atoned  for  its  frequent  injustice  to 
authors,  its  numerous  inconsistencies,  and  its  many  supposed 
heresies  in  taste,  philosophy,  and  reHgion, 

Among  the  many  noted  critics  and  essayists  who  have  made 
the  great  quarterly  their  medium  of  communication  with  the 
public,  there  is  none  who  has  obtained  a  wider  celebrity,  or  jus- 
tified his  popularity  by  compositions  of  more  intrinsic  excel- 
lence, than  Thomas  Babington  Macaulay.  He  began  to  con- 
tribute to  the  **  Review  "  when  it  appeared  to  be  passing  from 
the  green  into  the  yellow  leaf  of  public  favor,  and  his  articles 
commanded  immediate  attention,  and  gave  it  new  life  and  bril- 
liancy. The  estimation  in  which  he  was  early  held  is  evinced 
by  the  remark  of  Mackintosh,  that  he  was  master  of  every 
species  of  composition — a  saying  which  obtained  for  both  a 
clumsy  sneer  from  "  Blackwood's  Magazine."  From  the  year 
1825  to  the  present  period,  Macaulay  has  continued  his  con- 
nection with  the  "  Review."  There  probably  never  was  a  series 
of  articles  communicated  to  a  periodical  which  can  challenge 
comparison  with  those  of  Macaulay  for  effectiveness.  They  are 
characterized  by  many  of  the  qualities  of  heart  and  mind  which 
stamp  the  productions  of  an  Edinburgh  reviewer;  but  in  the 
combination  of  various  excellences,  they  far  excel  the  finest 
efforts  of  the  class.  As  nimble  and  concise  in  wit  as  Sydney 
Smith;  an  eye  quick  to  seize  all  those  delicate  refinements  of 
language,  and  happy  turns  of  expression  which  charm  us  in 
Jeft'rey;  displaying  much  of  the  imperious  scorn,  passionate 
strength,  and  swelling  diction  of  Brougham ;  as  brilliant,  and 
as  acute  in  critical  dissection,  as  Hazlitt,  without  his  unsound- 
ness of  mind ;  at  times  evincing  a  critical  judgment  which  would 
not  disgrace  the  stern  gravity  of  Hallam,  and  a  range  of  thought 
and  knowledge  which  reminds  us  of  Mackintosh — Macaulay 
seems  to  be  the  abstract  and  epitome  'of  the  whole  journal — 
seems  the  utmost  that  an  Edinburgh  reviewer  "  can  come  to." 
He  delights  everyone — high  or  low,  intelligent  or  ignorant. 
His  spice  is  of  so  keen  a  flavor  that  it  tickles  the  coarsest  palate. 
He  has  the  hesitating  suffrages  of  men  of  taste,  and  the  plaudits 
of  the  million.  The  man  who  has  a  common  knowledge  of  the 
English  language,  and  the  scholar  who  has  mastered  its  refine- 
ments, seem  equally  sensible  to  the  charm  of  his  diction.  No 
matter  how  unpromising  the  subject  on  which  he  writes  may  ap- 


366  WHIPPLE 

pear  to  the  common  eye,  in  his  hands  it  is  made  pleasing.  Sta- 
tistics, history,  biography,  poHtical  economy,  all  suffer  a  trans- 
formation into  **  something  rich  and  strange."  Prosaists  are 
made  to  love  poetry,  Tory  politicians  to  sympathize  with  Hamp- 
den and  Milton,  and  novel-readers  to  obtain  some  idea  of  Bacon 
and  his  philosophy.  The  v^oriderful  clearness,  point,  and  vigor 
of  his  style  send  his  thoughts  right  into  every  brain.  Indeed,  a 
person  v^rho  is  utterly  insensible  to  the  witchery  of  Macaulay's 
diction  must  be  either  a  Yahoo  or  a  beatified  intelligence. 

Some  of  the  causes  of  this  wide  and  general  popularity  may 
be  discerned  in  a  very  superficial  survey  of  Macaulay's  writings. 
The  brilliancy  which  is  diffused  over  them  all,  the  felicity  of 
their  style,  and  the  strong  mental  qualities  which  are  displayed 
in  their  conception  and  composition,  strike  us  at  a  glance. 
Every  page  is  brightened  with  wit,  ennobled  by  sentiment, 
freighted  with  knowledge,  or  decorated  with  imagery.  Thought 
is  conveyed  with  equal  directness  and  clearness.  Knowledge, 
and  important  principles  generalized  from  knowledge,  are  scat- 
tered with  careless  ease  and  prodigality  as  though  they  would 
hardly  be  missed  in  the  fulness  of  mind  from  which  they  pro- 
ceed. History  is  made  a  picture,  flushed  with  the  hues  of  the 
imagination,  and  illuminated  with  the  constant  flashes  of  a 
never-failing  wit.  Compression,  arrangement,  proportion — all 
the  arts  of  which  an  accomplished  rhetorician  avails  himself  to 
give  effect  to  his  composition — are  used  with  a  tact  and  taste 
which  conceal  from  us  the  appearance  of  labor  and  reflection. 
The  intricate  questions  of  criticism  and  philosophy,  the  char- 
acters and  actions  of  distinguished  men — poetry,  history,  po- 
litical economy,  king-craft,  metaphysics — are  all  discussed  with 
unhesitating  confidence,  and  without  the  slightest  admixture  of 
the  pedantry  of  scholarship.  Minute  researches  into  disputed 
points  of  history  and  biography,  large  speculations  on  the  most 
important  subjects  of  human  thought,  seem  equally  to  be  the 
element  in  which  the  mind  of  the  author  moves.  In  convicting 
Mr.  Croker  of  ignorance  in  unimportant  dates,  in  giving  a  philo- 
sophical view  of  the  progress  of  society,  in  analyzing  the  mental 
constitution  of  the  greatest  poets,  in  spreading  before  the  mind 
a  comprehensive  view  of  systems  in  metaphysics,  politics,  and 
religion,  he  appears  equally  at  home.  His  eye  is  both  microscopic 
and  telescopic ;  conversant  at  once  with  the  animalculse  of  society 


ESSAY   ON   MACAULAY  367 

and  letters,  and  the  larger  objects  of  human  concern.  Every  fe- 
licity of  expression  which  can  add  grace  to  his  style  is  studiously 
sought  after  and  happily  introduced.  Illustrations,  sometimes 
drawn  from  nature,  but  generally  from  a  vast  mass  of  well- 
digested  reading,  are  poured  lavishly  forth,  without  overwhelm- 
ing what  they  illustrate.  The  attention  of  the  reader  is  con- 
tinually provoked  by  the  pungent  stimulants  which  are  mixed 
in  the  composition  of  almost  every  sentence ;  and  the  most  care- 
less and  listless  person  who  ever  slept  over  a  treatise  on  philos- 
ophy cannot  fail  to  find  matter,  or  manner,  which  rouses  him 
from  mental  torpidity,  and  pleases  him  into  pupilage. 

If  Macaulay  thus  obtains  popularity  in  quarters  where  it  is 
generally  denied  to  thinkers,  and  monopolized  by  the  last  new 
novel,  he  is  not  the  less  calculated  to  win  golden  opinions  from 
readers  of  judgment  and  reflection.  Behind  the  external  show 
and  glittering  vesture  of  his  thoughts — beneath  all  his  pomp  of 
diction,  aptness  of  illustration,  splendor  of  imagery,  and  epi- 
grammatic point  and  glare — a  careful  eye  can  easily  discern  the 
movement  of  a  powerful  and  cultivated  intellect,  as  it  succes- 
sively appears  in  the  well-trained  logician,  the  discriminating 
critic,  the  comprehensive  thinker,  the  practical  and  far-sighted 
statesman,  and  the  student  of  universal  knowledge.  Perhaps 
the  extent  of  Macaulay's  range  over  the  field  of  literature  and 
science,  and  the  boldness  of  his  generalizations,  are  the  most 
striking  qualities  he  displays.  The  amount  of  his  knowledge 
surprises  even  book-worms,  memory-mongers,  and  other  liter- 
ary cormorants.  It  comprises  all  literatures,  and  all  depart- 
ments of  learning  and  literature.  It  touches  Scarron  on  one 
side  and  Plato  on  the  other.  He  seems  master  of  every  subject 
of  human  interest,  and  of  many  more  subjects  which  only  he 
can  make  interesting.  He  can  battle  theologians  with  weapons 
drawn  from  antique  armories  unknown  to  themselves;  sting 
pedants  with  his  wit,  and  then  overthrow  them  with  a  profusion 
of  trivial  and  recondite  learning ;  oppose  statesmen  on  the  prac- 
tical and  theoretical  questions  of  political  science;  brow-beat 
political  economists  on  their  own  vantage-ground,  be  apparently 
victorious  in  matters  of  pure  reason  in  an  argument  with  rea- 
soning machines;  follow  historians  step  by  step,  in  their  most 
minute  researches,  and  adduce  facts  and  principles  which  they 
have  overlooked ;  silence  metaphysicians  by  a  glib  condensation 


368  WHIPPLE 

of  all  theories  of  the  mind,  and  convict  them  of  ignorance  out  of 
Plato,  Aristotle,  Locke,  or  any  other  philosopher  they  may  hap- 
pen to  deify;  and  perform  the  whole  with  a  French  lightness 
and  ease  of  expression  which  never  before  was  used  to  convey 
so  much  vigor  and  reach  of  thought,  and  so  large  and  heavy  a 
load  of  information.  His  rapidity  of  manner — at  periods  fall- 
ing to  flippancy  and  pertness,  as  well  as  rising  to  vivid  and  im- 
passioned eloquence — is  calculated  to  deceive  many  into  the 
belief  that  he  is  shallow;  but  no  conclusion  could  be  more 
incorrect;  though,  from  the  time-honored  connection  between 
learning  and  dulness,  no  conclusion  is  more  natural.  Macau- 
lay's  morbidly  keen  sense  of  the  ludicrous  prevents  him  from 
manifesting  any  of  the  pompous  pedantry  and  foolish  vanities 
of  the  lore-proud  student,  but  rather  sends  him  to  the  opposite 
extreme.  His  mind  reacts  on  all  that  passes  into  it.  He  pos- 
sesses his  knowledge — not  his  knowledge  him.  It  does  not 
oppress  his  intellect  in  the  least,  but  is  stored  away  in  compact 
parcels,  ready  at  any  time  for  use.  It  is  no  weltering  chaos  of 
undigested  learning,  stumbling  into  expression  in  bewildered 
and  bewildering  language,  as  is  much  which  passes  for  great 
erudition ;  but  it  goes  through  the  alembic  of  a  strong  under- 
standing— it  is  subjected  to  the  scrutiny  of  a  discriminating  and 
weighty  judgment,  unshackled  by  authority — it  is  made  to  glow 
and  glitter  in  the  rays  of  a  vivid  fancy.  He  tears  away  all  that 
cumbrous  phraseology  which  encases  and  obscures  common 
truths,  and  which  scares  many  good  people  into  the  belief  that 
stale  truisms  are  abstruse  mysteries.  He  is  not  deluded  by 
great  names  and  "  standard  '*  books ;  his  judgment  is  untram- 
melled by  accredited  opinions  on  taste,  morals,  government, 
and  religion ;  the  heavy  panoply  of  learning  encumbers  not  the 
free  play  of  his  mind ;  he  has  none  of  the  silly  pride  of  intellect 
and  erudition,  but  he  seems  rather  to  consider  authors  as  men 
who  are  determined  to  make  a  fool  of  him  if  they  can;  he 
haughtily  disputes  their  opinions,  and  treats  their  unfounded 
pretensions  with  mocking  scorn ;  and  he  delights  to  cram  tomes 
of  diluted  facts  into  one  short,  sharp,  antithetical  sentence,  and 
condense  general  principles  into  epigrams.  Few  scholars  have 
manifested  so  much  independence  and  affluence  of  thought,  in 
connection  with  so  rich  and  varied  an  amount  of  knowledge. 
As  a  critic  of  poetry  and  general  literature  Macaulay  mani- 


ESSAY   ON   MACAU  LAY  369 

fests  considerable  depth  of  feeling ;  a  fine  sense  of  the  beauti- 
ful ;  a  quick  sensibility ;  acuteness  in  discerning  the  recondite 
as  well  as  predominating  qualities  of  an  author's  mind,  and 
setting  them  forth  in  clear,  direct,  and  pointed  expression ;  and 
a  comprehensive  and  penetrating  judgment,  unfettered  by  any 
rules  unfounded  in  the  nature  of  things.  Intellectual  and  moral 
sympathy,  the  prominent  quality  of  a  good  poetical  critic,  he 
possesses  to  as  great  a  degree  as  could  be  expected,  or  perhaps 
tolerated,  in  an  Edinburgh  reviewer.  He  overrules  or  reverses, 
with  the  most  philosophical  coolness,  many  of  the  decisions 
made  by  Jeffrey,  and  other  hanging  judges  among  his  predeces- 
sors; and  awards  justice  to  many  whom  they  petulantly  or 
basely  condemned.  For  great  authors,  for  the  crowned  kings 
of  thought,  for  many  poets  who  labor  under  the  appellation  of 
irregular  geniuses,  for  statesmen  of  broad  views  and  powerful 
energies,  he  can  expend  a  large  amount  of  sympathy,  and  in 
praise  of  their  merits  indulge  in  an  almost  unbroken  strain  of 
panegyric ;  but  for  small  writers  he  has  little  sympathy,  tolera- 
tion, or  charity.  The  articles  on  Milton,  Machiavelli,  Bacon, 
Dryden,  Byron — the  incidental  references  to  Dante,  Words- 
worth, Shelley,  Alfieri,  Burke,  Coleridge — all  display  an  ardent 
love  of  intellectual  excellence,  and  a  liberal  and  catholic  taste. 
In  other  essays,  as  those  on  Sir  William  Temple,  Clive,  Hast- 
ings, Hampden,  Mirabeau,  Frederick  the  Great,  Macaulay 
shows  an  equal  power  of  judging  of  men  of  action,  and  sum- 
ming up  impartially  the  merits  and  defects  of  their  characters 
and  lives.  Before  all  that  is  great  in  intellect  and  conduct  he 
bends  the  knee  in  willing  homage,  and  praises  with  unforced 
and  vivid  eloquence.  The  articles  on  Milton  and  Hampden  are 
noble  monuments  to  the  genius  and  virtue  of  the  first,  and  the 
virtue  and  talents  of  the  last.  Throughout  both  we  see  a  strong, 
hearty,  earnest,  sympathizing  spirit  in  unchecked  action.  The 
keenness  of  judgment,  likewise,  displayed  in  separating  the  bad 
from  the  good,  in  the  intellectual  and  moral  constitution  of  many 
of  his  favorites  among  men  of  action  and  speculation,  and  trac- 
ing their  errors  of  taste  and  faults  of  conduct  to  their  true  out- 
ward or  inward  source,  is  worthy  of  all  admiration.  The  sharp 
analysis  which  stops  only  at  the  truth,  is  used  with  unsparing 
rigor  in  cases  where  enthusiastic  apology  would,  in  a  scholar, 
be  merely  an  amiable  weakness.  What  Macaulay  sees  is  not 
24 


370  WHIPPLE 

"  distorted  and  refracted  through  a  false  medium  of  passions 
and  prejudices,"  but  is  discerned  with  clearness,  and  in  "  dry 
light."  He  sacrifices  the  whole  body  of  ancient  philosophers 
at  the  shrine  of  Bacon;  but  he  discriminates  with  unerring 
accuracy  between  Bacon  the  philosopher,  and  Bacon  the  poli- 
tician, "  Bacon  seeking  truth,  and  Bacon  seeking  for  the  seals." 
He  blushes  for  the  "  disingenuousness  of  the  most  devoted  wor- 
shipper of  speculative  truth,  and  the  servility  of  the  boldest 
champion  of  intellectual  freedom ; "  and  remembers  that  if 
Bacon  was  the  first  "  who  treated  legislation  as  a  science,  he 
was  among  the  last  Englishmen  who  used  the  rack ;  that  he  who 
first  summoned  philosophers  to  the  great  work  of  interpreting 
nature,  was  among  the  last  Englishmen  who  sold  justice." 
"  The  transparent  splendor  of  Cicero's  incomparable  diction," 
does  not  blind  Macaulay  to  the  fact,  that  the  great  orator's  whole 
life  "  was  under  the  dominion  of  a  girlish  vanity  and  a  craven 
fear."  His  respect  for  Frederick's  military  character  extends 
not  to  his  rhymes,  but  he  treats  them  with  as  much  disrespect 
as  if  they  had  proceeded  from  the  merest  hack  that  ever  butch- 
ered language  into  bathos,  or  diluted  it  into  sentimentality. 
This  absence  of  idol-worship  in  Macaulay  adds  much  to  the 
value  of  his  opinions  and  investigations,  but  at  times  it  gives  a 
kind  of  heartlessness  to  his  manner,  which  grates  upon  the  sen- 
sibility. In  proportion  as  his  praise  is  eloquent  and  hearty  for 
what  is  noble  and  great  in  character,  his  scorn  is  severe  for  what 
is  little  and  mean.  In  the  dissection  he  makes  of  Bacon's  moral 
character,  and  the  cool  unconcern  with  which  he  lays  open  to 
view  his  manifold  frailties,  we  are  often  led  to  ask  with  Hamlet, 
"  Has  this  fellow  no  feeling  of  his  business  ?  '*  In  considering 
the  lives  of  men  of  lofty  endowments,  we  are  often  better  pleased 
with  the  charity  that  covers  a  multitude  of  sins,  than  the  stern 
justice  which  parades  them  in  the  light,  and  holds  them  up  to 
abhorrence. 

But  if  great  men  receive  more  justice  than  mercy  from  Ma- 
caulay, men  of  low  intellectual  stature  fare  worse.  He  here 
manifests  a  spirit  akin  to  Faulconbridge  and  Hotspur.  There 
is  no  critic  who  is  less  tolerant  of  mediocrity.  For  half-bred 
reasoners,  for  well-meaning  and  bad-writing  theologians,  for 
undeveloped  geniuses,  for  pompous  pedantry,  for  respectable 
stupidity,  for  every  variety  of  the  tame,  the  frigid,  and  the  low, 
he  has  an  imperious  and  crushing  contempt.    There  are  many 


JESSAY   ON   MACAULAY 


371 


writers,  also,  who  have  a  good  reputation  among  what  are 
termed  men  of  taste,  and  whose  works  are,  or  should  be,  "  on 
the  shelves  of  every  gentleman's  library,"  whom  he  treats  with  a 
cool  arrogance  which  shocks  the  nerves  not  a  little.  His  critical 
severity  almost  actualizes  the  ideal  of  critical  damnation.  There 
is  no  show  of  mercy  in  him.  He  carries  his  austerity  beyond  the 
bounds  of  humanity.  His  harshness  to  the  captive  of  his  criti- 
cism is  a  transgression  of  the  law  against  cruelty  to  animals. 
Among  a  squad  of  bad  writers — if  the  simile  be  allowable — he 
seems  to  exclaim  with  the  large-boned  quadruped  that  danced 
among  the  chickens,  **  Let  everyone  take  care  of  himself !  "  He 
is  both  judge  and  executioner ;  condemns  the  prisoner — puts  on 
the  black  cap  with  a  stinging  sneer — hangs,  quarters,  and  scat- 
ters his  limbs  to  the  four  winds — without  any  appearance  of  pity 
or  remorse.  He  subjects  the  commonplace,  the  stupid,  the  nar- 
row-minded, to  every  variety  of  critical  torture;  he  fiddles 
them  with  epigrams,  he  racks  them  with  analysis,  he  scorches 
them  with  sarcasm ;  he  probes  their  most  delicate  and  sensitive 
nerves  with  the  glittering  edge  of  his  wit;  he  breathes  upon 
them  the  hot  breath  of  his  scorn ;  he  crushes  and  grinds  them 
in  the  whirling  mill  of  his  logic ;  over  the  burning  marl  of  his 
critical  Pandemonium  he  makes  them  walk  with  unsandalled 
feet,  and  views  their  ludicrous  agonies  with  mocking  glee.  All 
other  reviewers  are  babes  to  him.  A  heretic  in  the  grasp  of  a 
holy  father  of  the  Inquisition — a  pauper  who  has  incurred  the 
displeasure  of  the  parish  beadle — a  butterfly  in  the  hands  of  a 
man  of  science — all  have  reason  to  be  thankful  that  destiny  has 
saved  them  from  the  torment  which  awaits  the  dunce  who  has 
fallen  into  the  clutch  of  Macaulay. 

If  murdered  books  could  burst  their  cerements,  and  revisit  the 
earth  to  haunt  their  destroyers,  the  sleep  of  Thomas  Babington 
Macaulay  would  be  peopled  with  more  phantoms  than  the  slum- 
bers of  Richard  III.  A  collection  of  the  authors  from  the  middle 
and  lower  classes  of  literature,  which  this  Nimrod  of  criticism 
— this  death-angel,  Azrael,  of  letters — has  sent  to  their  long  ac- 
count, would  somewhat  resemble  the  "  circle  in  a  parlor,"  men- 
tioned in  Peter  Bell : 

"Crammed  just  as  they  on  earth  were  crammed: 
Some  sipping  punch,  some  sipping  tea, 
But,  as  you  by  their  faces  see, 
All  silent— and  all  damned !  '* 


372 


WHIPPLE 


It  is  to  be  feared  that  other  motives  than  those  which  spring 
from  an  offended  taste  sometimes  influence  Macaulay's  critical 
decisions.  PoHtical  hostility,  and  the  bitterness  of  feeling  it 
naturally  engenders,  may  be  supposed  to  have  edged  much  of 
the  cutting  sarcasm  which  is  used  so  pitilessly  in  the  wholesale 
condemnation  of  John  Wilson  Croker's  edition  of  Boswell's 
"  Johnson."  The  purity  of  the  critical  ermine,  like  that  of  the 
judicial,  is  often  soiled  by  contact  with  politics. 

There  is  one  quality  of  Macaulay's  nature,  and  that,  perhaps, 
the  best,  which  is  deserving  of  lavish  eulogium — ^his  intense  love 
of  liberty,  and  his  hearty  hatred  of  despotism.  Few  authors 
have  written  more  eloquently  of  freedom,  or  paid  truer  and 
nobler  homage  to  its  advocates  and  martyrs;  and  few  have 
opened  hotter  vials  of  wrath  upon  bigotry,  tyranny,  and  all  forms 
of  legislative  fraud.  Tyranny  is  associated  in  his  mind  with 
all  that  is  mean  and  hateful.  In  sweeping  its  pretensions  from 
his  path,  in  tasking  every  faculty  of  his  intellect  to  search  and 
shame  the  narrow  hearts  of  its  apologists,  "  his  rhetoric  becomes 
a  whirlwind,  and  his  logic,  fire."  His  denunciation  is  frequently 
awful  in  its  depth,  and  earnestness,  and  crushing  force.  He 
holds  no  quarter  with  his  opponents,  and  wars  to  the  knife.  His 
consummate  dialectical  skill,  his  unbounded  sway  over  lan- 
guage, his  wide  grasp  of  thought  and  knowledge,  the  full 
strength  of  his  passions,  and  the  utmost  splendor  of  his  imagina- 
tion, are  ever  ready  at  the  call  of  free  principles  to  perform  any 
needed  service — to  unmask  the  specious  forms  of  disguised 
despotism,  to  overthrow  and  trample  under  foot  the  injustice 
which  has  lied  itself  into  axioms.  He  then  becomes  enthusiastic 
and  wholly  in  earnest,  and  his  eloquence,  in  its  torrent-like  rush 
and  fierce  sweep,  resembles  that  which  he  has  so  happily  de- 
scribed as  characterizing  the  forensic  efforts  of  Fox — reason 
penetrated,  and,  as  it  were,  made  red-hot  with  passion.  In 
numerous  passages  of  his  articles  on  Milton,  Church  and  State, 
Constitutional  History,  and  Hampden,  and,  especially,  in  the 
review  of  Southey's  "  Colloquies  on  Society,"  he  reasons  with 
all  the  force  and  fire  of  declamation.  Imagination,  fancy,  sensi- 
bility, seem  all  fused  into  his  understanding.  His  illustrations 
are  analogies;  his  images  are  pictorial  arguments;  the  most 
gorgeous  trappings  of  his  rhetoric  are  radiant  with  thought. 
His  intellectual  eye  pierces  instantly  beneath  the  shows  of  things 


ESSAY  ON   MACAULAY  373 

to  the  things  themselves  and  seems  almost  to  behold  truth  in 
clear  vision.  In  boldness  of  thought,  in  intellectual  hardihood 
and  daring,  in  vehement  strength  of  soul,  he  excels  most  of  the 
liberal  statesmen  of  Europe.  His  essays  are  full  of  propositions 
which  not  a  few  honorable  members  of  Congress  would  shrink 
from  supporting,  and  yet  there  is  in  his  writings  an  entire  ab- 
sence of  all  the  cant  and  maudlin  affectation  of  mouth-worship- 
pers of  freedom.  Many  passages  might  be  selected  as  indicat- 
ing the  liberality  and  clearness  of  his  views  respecting  the  just 
powers  of  government,  and  the  rights  of  the  governed.  His 
opinions  on  the  union  of  Church  and  State  show  great  compre- 
hensiveness of  thought,  and  extent  of  information.  The  advo- 
cates of  the  necessary  connection  between  a  good  government 
and  an  established  church  are  opposed  with  the  full  strength  of 
his  intellect  and  passions.  The  whole  history  of  the  Christian 
religion  shows,  he  says,  that  "  she  is  in  far  greater  danger  of 
being  corrupted  by  the  alliance  of  power  than  of  being  crushed 
by  its  opposition.  Those  who  thrust  temporal  sovereignty  upon 
her  treat  her  as  their  prototypes  treated  her  author.  They  bow 
the  knee  and  spit  upon  her ;  they  cry  Hail !  and  smite  her  on 
the  cheek ;  they  put  a  sceptre  into  her  hand,  but  it  is  a  fragile 
reed;  they  crown  her,  but  it  is  with  thorns;  they  cover  with 
purple  the  wounds  which  their  own  hands  have  inflicted  upon 
her,  and  inscribe  magnificent  titles  over  the  cross  on  which  they 
have  fixed  her  to  perish  in  ignominy  and  pain." 

The  imperious  scorn,  the  bitter  hatred,  the  unalloyed  detesta- 
tion, he  feels  for  the  meanness  and  manifold  infamies  which  fol- 
lowed in  the  train  of  the  "  glorious  restoration  "  of  Charles  H, 
inspire  many  a  passage  of  vigorous  argument,  and  glow  and 
burn  beneath  many  a  sentence  of  splendid  rhetoric.  After  pay- 
ing an  eloquent  tribute  to  the  virtue,  the  valor,  the  religious 
fervor,  of  the  Puritans,  who  wrought  the  first  English  revolu- 
tion, he  bursts  out  in  a  strain  of  indignant  rebuke  of  the  succeed- 
ing social  and  political  enormities  which  paved  the  way  to  the 
second.  "  Then  came  those  days  never  to  be  mentioned  without 
a  blush — the  days  of  servitude  without  loyalty,  and  sensuality 
without  love ;  of  dwarfish  talents  and  gigantic  vices ;  the  para- 
dise of  cold  hearts  and  narrow  minds ;  the  golden  age  of  the 
coward,  the  bigot  and  the  slave.  The  king,  cringing  to  his 
rival  that  he  might  trample  on  his  people,  sank  into  a  viceroy  of 


374 


WHIPPLE 


France,  and  pocketed,  with  complacent  infamy,  her  degrading 
insults  and  more  degrading  gold.  The  caresses  of  harlots  and 
the  jests  of  buffoons. regulated  the  measures  of  a  government 
which  had  just  ability  enough  to  deceive,  and  just  religion 
enough  to  persecute.  The  principles  of  liberty  were  the  scoff 
of  every  grinning  courtier,  and  the  Anathema  Maranatha  of 
every  fawning  dean.  In  every  high  place,  worship  was  paid  to 
Charles  and  James — Belial  and  Moloch ;  and  England  propiti- 
ated these  obscene  and  cruel  idols  with  the  blood  of  her  best 
and  bravest  children.  Crime  succeeded  to  crime,  and  disgrace 
to  disgrace,  till  the  race  accursed  of  God  and  man  was  a  second 
time  driven  forth,  to  wander  on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  to  be  a 
byword  and  a  shaking  of  the  head  to  the  nations."  Not  less 
severe  is  he  upon  the  literature  of  that  period.  "  A  deep  and 
general  taint  infected  the  morals  of  the  most  influential  classes, 
and  spread  itself  through  every  province  of  letters.  Poetry  in- 
flamed the  passions;  philosophy  undermined  the  principles; 
divinity  itself,  inculcating  an  abject  reverence  for  the  court,  gave 
additional  effect  to  its  licentious  example.  The  excesses  of  the 
age  remind  us  of  the  humors  of  a  gang  of  footpads,  revelling 
with  their  favorite  beauties  at  a  flash-house.  In  the  fashionable 
libertinism,  there  is  a  hard,  cold  ferocity,  an  impudence,  a  low- 
ness,  a  dirtiness,  which  can  be  paralleled  only  among  the  heroes 
and  heroines  of  that  filthy  and  heartless  literature  which  encour- 
aged it."  Macaulay,  likewise,  is  honest  beyond  most  English 
writers  in  his  view  of  the  revolution  which  dethroned  Charles  I ; 
and  points  out  the  inconsistencies  of  that  class  of  religionists  and 
politicians  who,  "  on  the  fifth  of  November,  thank  God  for  won- 
derfully conducting  his  servant  King  William,  and  for  making 
all  opposition  fall  before  him  until  he  became  our  king  and  gov- 
ernor ! — and  on  the  thirtieth  of  January  contrive  to  be  afraid  that 
the  blood  of  the  royal  martyr  may  be  visited  on  themselves  and 
children."  Indeed,  he  always  brings  to  the  task  of  commenting 
on  the  history  of  his  own  country  a  comprehensiveness  of  view, 
a  freedom  from  prejudice,  a  love  for  free  principles,  and  a  pict- 
uresqueness  and  energy  of  diction,  which  make  his  historical 
essays  among  the  most  fascinating  of  compositions. 

Yet,  with  all  his  fondness  for  speculative  truth,  with  all  his 
deep  sense  and  detestation  of  injustice  and  corruption,  with  all 
his  fine  perception  of  the  harmonious  and  true  in  literature  and 


ESSAY   ON   MACAULAY  375 

laws,  there  is  hardly  any  statesman  more  thoroughly  practical 
than  Macaulay.  He  can  sympathize  with  the  great  works  of 
imagination,  and  his  rhetoric  reveals  in  their  praise  and  illustra- 
tion ;  but  he  sympathizes  with  them  merely  as  works  of  imagina- 
tion, and  he  carries  but  few  of  his  idealities  into  his  view  of 
actual  life  and  established  government.  He  tolerates  no  writer 
whose  sensibility  and  imagination  are  predominant  in  discussing 
questions  of  national  policy,  of  finance,  manufactures,  com- 
merce, or  law ;  he  allows  the  introduction  of  no  Utopias  into 
the  living,  breathing,  sinning  world  of  fact.  No  mercy  is  shown 
to  those  who  treat  government  as  a  fine  art,  and  "  judge  of  it  as 
they  would  of  a  statue  or  picture  " ;  and  the  mental  constitu- 
tion of  political  philosophers,  who  erect  theories  out  of  materials 
furnished  from  other  sources  than  reason  and  observation,  is 
analyzed  with  unrivalled  dexterity  and  discrimination.  All  rant 
about  the  rights  of  man,  all  whining  and  whimpering  about  the 
clashing  interests  of  body  and  soul,  are  treated  with  haughty 
scorn,  or  made  the  butt  of  contemptuous  ridicule.  Society  is 
viewed  as  it  is,  and  principles  accommodated  to  the  existing 
state  of  things.  No  man  is  denounced  for  acting  or  thinking  in 
the  sixteenth  century  what  the  sixteenth  century  acted  and 
thought,  or  attacked  because  he  did  not  accommodate  his  con- 
duct to  the  principles  of  the  nineteenth.  To  the  discussion  of  all 
practical  questions,  he  brings  a  practical  logic,  and  an  experi- 
ence grounded  on  observation  of  the  actual  world.  He  would 
belong  to  that  party  which  is  just  enough  in  advance  of  the  age 
to  be  useful  to  it.  But  if  he  has  little  respect  for  impracticable 
theories  of  freedom,  neither  will  he  hold  any  terms  with  theoret- 
ical advocates  or  apologists  of  oppression.  After  scattering  all 
arguments  for  a  political  institution,  he  often  opposes  its  demoli- 
tion, from  expediency.  He  never  allows  the  majesty  of  reason 
to  be  insulted  with  the  thin  sophisms  used  in  palliation  or  de- 
fence of  political  and  social  abuses ;  but  he  is  too  little  of  an 
idealist  in  politics  to  suppose  that,  because  those  abuses  are  un- 
founded in  reason,  they  are  necessarily  and  altogether  perni- 
cious, and  should  be  immediately  overthrown.  His  enthusiasm 
and  imagination  march  in  the  train  of  his  understanding,  and 
never  lead  when  they  should  follow. 

After  so  wide  a  survey  of  Macaulay's  merits,  it  is  no  more 
than  proper  to  add  some  few  remarks  on  his  faults  and  deficien- 


376  WHIPPLE 

cies.  These  are  few  or  many,  as  different  tastes  may  decide. 
His  marked  mannerism  of  style  would  offend  some;  while 
others  would  bring  against  him  the  charge  of  being  too  much 
of  the  earth,  earthy.  Many  might  object  to  him,  that  his  inces- 
sant brilliancy  sometimes  fatigues  in  the  limits  of  an  essay,  and 
would  be  as  intolerable  as  dulness  itself  in  a  volume ;  that,  in 
attempting  to  give  vividness  to  his  diction,  he  is  often  over- 
strained and  extravagant,  and  that  his  epigrammatic  style  seems 
better  fitted  for  the  glitter  of  paradox  than  the  sober  guise  of 
truth  ;  that  he  manifests  too  much  dogmatism  and  superciHous- 
ness  in  discussion,  and  that  propositions  which  lie  across  the 
path  of  his  argument  are  too  frequently  disposed  of  by  assertion 
instead  of  reasoning ;  that,  with  all  his  skill  in  dialectics,  there 
are  occasions  in  which  he  betrays  a  lack  of  logical  honesty,  and 
takes  "  truisms  for  his  premises  and  paradox  for  his  conclu- 
sion ; "  that  too  much  of  the  inspiration  of  his  wit  comes  from 
scorn  and  contempt,  and  is  little  restrained  by  kindliness  of  tem- 
per; that  high  philosophy  and  reHgion,  in  his  writings,  are 
rather  considered  as  subjects  for  curious  investigation,  than  as 
guides  to  life;  that,  with  all  his  vehemence  and  intellectual 
hardihood  in  the  cause  of  liberty  and  the  deep-toned  passion 
with  which  he  denounces  tyranny  and  its  corruptions,  there  is 
still  little  which  shows  a  disposition  to  shed  blood  as  well  as  ink 
in  defence  of  free  principles ;  that,  with  considerable  power  in 
painting  martyrdom  in  alluring  colors,  and  with  a  high  respect 
for  those  who  bravely  meet  without  fanatically  seeking  it,  he 
is  still  not  the  man  whom  we  might  ever  expect  to  see  at  the 
stake,  or  to  behold  starving  on  freedom ;  that,  as  an  essayist  and 
critic,  he  has  not  the  benignity  of  disposition,  the  quiet  tender- 
ness, the  calm  beauty,  of  Talfourd,  nor  the  intense  brooding 
spirit,  the  inwardness,  the  "  solemn  agony,"  of  Carlyle ;  all 
these,  and  many  more  objections,  might  be  brought  against 
Macaulay — some  of  them  true,  some  overstated,  some  unimpor- 
tant, and  none  which  should  overbalance  his  claims  to  high  rank 
among  contemporary  authors.  The  truth  of  the  matter  is,  that 
the  prominent  characteristic  of  Macaulay's  writings,  and  the 
source  both  of  his  merits  and  defects,  may  be  comprised  in  one 
word — vigor.  To  this  he  often  sacrifices  simplicity,  and  occa- 
sionally even  strict  truth.  Truisms  he  states  with  all  the 
strength  of  passion ;  common  historical  events  he  narrates  with 


ESSAY  ON   MACAULAY  377 

all  the  brilliancy  of  epigram.  He  rarely  "  possesses  himself  in 
any  quietness."  Hence,  with  all  his  power  of  strong  thought, 
he  has  no  thoughtfulness.  Byron  displays  hardly  more  inten- 
sity. Tediousness  he  seems  to  consider  as  a  combination  of  the 
seven  deadly  sins  of  rhetoric;  he  carefully  avoids  it  himself; 
he  lashes  it  remorselessly  in  others.  He  has  a  nervous  hatred, 
a  fierce,  haughty  contempt,  for  commonplace,  cant,  feebleness 
of  thought,  meanness  of  expression,  pomposity  of  manner — in 
short,  for  all  shapes  and  shades  of  dulness.  The  common  faults 
and  affectations  of  men  of  letters,  he  carefully  avoids,  and  he 
labors  to  give  all  his  productions  a  cosmopolitan  air.  Nothing 
that  he  writes  is  "  sicklied  o'er  with  the  pale  cast  of  thought." 
The  level  shadow  of  the  actual,  in  his  mind  stretches  far  and 
wide  into  the  sunny  tract  of  the  ideal,  and  he  is  as  much  an  utili- 
tarian as  a  strong  imagination,  and  a  fine  taste  for  works  of  art, 
will  permit.  He  listens  to  no  voices  from  the  land  of  dreams, 
and  never  labors  to  express  the  inexpressible.  Almost  every 
sentence  in  his  essays  is  clear,  sharp,  pointed,  direct,  pictorial. 
He  never  whines,  although  he  is  not  more  deficient  in  sensibility 
than  many  authors  who  do  little  else.  His  quick  sense  of  the 
ridiculous  preserves  him  from  cant  and  all  its  manifold  sins. 
To  give  raciness  and  energy  to  his  style,  he  has  no  hesitation  in 
using  phrases  which  young  ladies  might  consider  inelegant,  and 
which  Miss  Betty  would  pronounce  decidedly  "  low."  His 
works  overflow  with  antithetical  forms  of  expression,  and 
thoughts  condensed  into  sparkling  epigrams.  The  latter  he 
seems  to  love  with  all  the  affection  which  Shakespeare  had  for 
puns.  Sometimes  they  betray  careful  elaboration— at  others, 
they  have  the  suddenness  of  poetical  inspiration.  His  page  is 
brightened  with  them.  Gleaning  over  the  discussion  of  a  ques- 
tion of  taste,  like  incessant  flashes  of  heat-lightning — thrown 
off  like  glittering  sparks,  in  the  rush  of  his  declamatory  logic 
— at  one  time  used  as  the  agreeable  vehicle  to  convey  an  im- 
portant truth,  at  another,  the  shining  armor  in  which  a  para- 
dox or  a  sophism  is  impenetrably  encased — they  seem  almost 
native  to  his  mind,  and  he  to  the  "  manor  bom."  There  are 
whole  pages  in  his  writings  which  must  be  interpreted  accord- 
ing to  the  laws  of  epigram,  instead  of  the  proprieties  of  state- 
ment. That  this  love  for  pointed  diction  leads  him  into  many 
errors,  cannot  be  denied ;  but  the  blemish  is  so  delightful  that 


378  WHIPPLE 

the  reader  no  more  thinks  of  making  it  a  matter  for  grave  crit- 
ical accusation  than  of  quarrelHng  with  Congreve  for  his  ex- 
cess of  wit,  or  with  Carlyle  for  his  excess  of  spirituality. 

It  may  now  be  asked  by  some  sapient  critics,  Why  make  all 
this  coil  about  a  mere  periodical  essayist?  Of  what  possible 
concern  is  it  to  anybody,  whether  Mr.  Thomas  Babington 
Macaulay  be,  or  be  not,  overrun  with  faults,  since  he  is  nothing 
more  than  one  of  the  three-day  immortals,  who  contribute  flashy 
and  "  taking  "  articles  to  a  quarterly  review  ?  What  great  work 
has  he  written?  Such  questions  as  these  might  be  put  by  the 
same  men  who  place  the  "  Spectator,"  "  Tatler,"  and  "  Ram- 
bler," among  the  British  classics,  yet  judge  of  the  size  of  a  con- 
temporary's mind  by  that  of  his  book,  and  who  can  hardly  recog- 
nize amplitude  of  comprehension,  unless  it  be  spread  over  the 
six  hundred  pages  of  octavos  and  quartos.  Such  men  would 
place  Bancroft  above  Webster,  and  Sparks  above  Calhoun, 
Adams  and  Everett — deny  a  posterity  for  Bryant's  "  Thana- 
topsis,"  and  predict  longevity  to  Pollok's  "  Course  of  Time." 
It  is  singular  that  the  sagacity  which  can  discern  thought  only  in 
a  state  of  dilution,  is  not  sadly  gravelled  when  it  thinks  of  the 
sententious  aphorisms  which  have  survived  whole  libraries  of 
folios,  and  the  little  songs  which  have  outrun,  in  the  race  of 
fame,  so  many  enormous  epics.  While  it  can  easily  be  demon- 
strated that  Macaulay's  writings  contain  a  hundred-fold  more 
matter  and  thought  than  an  equal  number  of  volumes  taken 
from  what  are  called,  par  eminence,  the  "  British  Essayists,"  it 
is  not  broaching  any  literary  heresy  to  predict  that  they  will  sail 
as  far  down  the  stream  of  time  as  those  eminent  members  of  the 
illustrious  family  of  British  classics. 


CHOICE   EXAMPLES   OF   EARLY   PRINTING   AND 
ENGRAVING. 

Fac-similes  from  Rare  and  Curious  Books. 


PAGE   FROM  A    BOOK  OF  HOURS. 

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of  Simon  Vostre  decorates  this  page,  which  belongs  to  a  book  published  at  Paris 
about  1499.  Cupids  shoot  their  arrows  in  the  upper  part  of  the  border.  Below  is 
an  animated  series  of  hunting  scenes  in  which  we  see  the  beaters  rousing  the  deer. 
The  hunters  follow  with  hounds,  and  finally  the  deer  is  brought  to  bay  and  de- 
spatched by  a  spear  thrust  in  the  throat. 


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CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO 


BY 


JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 
1819— 1891 

Cambridge,  inseparably  associated  with  the  names  of  so  many  of 
America's  men  of  letters,  was  the  birthplace  and,  during  the  greater  part 
of  his  splendid  career,  the  home  of  James  Russell  Lowell.  Born  in  1819, 
he  was  sent  to  one  of  the  private  schools  in  his  native  town,  and  then 
to  Harvard,  where  he  graduated  in  1838.  Two  years  later  he  was  ad- 
mitted to  the  bar,  but  never  practised,  devoting  himself  almost  ex- 
clusively to  the  pursuit  of  literature.  His  first  volume  of  poems  was 
published  in  1841,  the  collection  containing  many  verses  that  he  after- 
wards suppressed.  Three  years  later  he  married,  and  went  to  live  at 
"  Elmwood,"  the  beautiful  house  where  he  was  born.  The  same  year 
appeared  "  A  Legend  of  Brittany,"  one  of  the  most  admired  of  his 
poems.  In  1848  he  published  "  A  Fable  for  Critics,"  one  of  the  wit- 
tiest of  literary  satires,  and  also  issued  in  book  form  the  first  series  of 
the  powerful  "  Biglow  Papers,"  denouncing  the  Mexican  War.  These 
vigorous  poems  in  the  Yankee  dialect  and  bristling  with  Yankee  hu- 
mor and  common-sense  remain  a  noteworthy  contribution  to  American 
literature. 

In  1854  Lowell  accepted  the  professorship  of  modern  languages  at 
Harvard  made  vacant  by  the  resignation  of  Longfellow,  and  after  two 
years  spent  in  Europe  entered  upon  his  work.  From  1857  to  1862 
Lowell  was  the  editor  of  the  newly  founded  "  Atlantic  Monthly,"  and 
from  1863  to  1872  he  was  associated  with  Professor  Charles  Eliot  Nor- 
ton in  editing  the  "  North  American  Review."  In  1864  he  published 
a  prose  work,  "  Fireside  Travels,"  containing  "  Cambridge  Thirty 
Years  Ago,"  and  numerous  other  sketches  written  in  his  best  vein.  In 
1866  appeared  the  second  series  of  the  "  Biglow  Papers,"  dealing  with 
questions  connected  with  the  Civil  War.  Various  volumes  of  essays  in 
the  same  vein  as  "  Fireside  Travels  "  soon  followed,  including  "  Among 
my  Books  "  in  1870,  "  My  Study  W^indow  "  in  1871,  and  "  Among  my 
Books,"  a  second  series,  in  1876.  The  fact  that  Lowell  was  called  upon 
to  write  the  "  Commemoration  Ode  "  in  honor  of  the  sons  of  Harvard 
slain  in  the  Civil  War,  two  odes  celebrating  the  centennial  commemora- 
tion of  battles  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  another  ode  in  honor  of 
the  centennial  anniversary  of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  shows  us 
the  great  regard  he  enjoyed  as  a  popular  poet. 

In  1877  Mr.  Lowell  was  sent  as  Minister  to  Spain,  and  in  1880  was 
transferred  to  the  Court  of  St.  James,  where  he  remained  till  1885, 
becoming  a  prominent  figure  in  the  public  and  literary  life  of  England, 
and  one  of  the  most  popular  and  respected  ambassadors  ever  sent 
there  from  any  country  in  recent  times.  He  was  often  called  upon  to 
deliver  public  addresses,  many  of  which  were  collected  and  published  in 
1886  under  the  title  of  "  Democracy,  and  Other  Addresses,"  a  volume 
in  which  he  displays  the  mature  judgment  of  the  scholar,  the  man  of 
letters,  and  the  man  of  affairs.  In  1888  he  brought  out  a  volume  of 
"  Political  Essays,"  and  his  "  Latest  Literary  Essays  and  Addresses  " 
was  issued  in  1891,  the  year  of  his  death. 

Lowell,  though  not  the  most  popular  of  American  poets,  takes  the 
foremost  rank  in  American  literature,  as  a  satirist,  essayist,  and  critic. 
Moreover,  he  was  a  most  charming  representative  of  the  American 
gentleman  and  scholar,  and  all  that  is  best  in  American  life.  His 
poetical  writings  are  of  uneven  and  disputed  merit,  but  in  his  prose  he 
is  always  clear  and  vigorous;  scholarly  but  never  pedantic;  always 
inspiring  and  frequently  briUiant. 

380 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO 

A  Memoir  addressed  to  the  Edelmann  Storg  in  Rome 

IN  those  quiet  old  winter  evenings,  around  our  Roman  fire- 
side, it  was  not  seldom,  my  dear  Storg,  that  we  talked  of 
the  advantages  of  travel,  and  in  speeches  not  so  long  that 
our  cigars  would  forget  their  fire  (the  measure  of  just  conversa- 
tion) debated  the  comparative  advantages  of  the  Old  and  the 
New  Worlds.^  You  will  remember  how  serenely  I  bore  the 
imputation  of  provincialism,  while  I  asserted  that  those  advan- 
tages were  reciprocal ;  that  an  orbed  and  balanced  life  would  re- 
volve between  the  old  and  the  new  as  its  opposite,  but  not  an- 
tagonistic poles,  the  true  equator  lying  somewhere  midway  be- 
tween them.  I  asserted  also  that  there  were  two  epochs  at 
which  a  man  might  travel — ^before  twenty,  for  pure  enjoyment, 
and  after  thirty,  for  instruction.  At  twenty,  the  eye  is  suffi- 
ciently delighted  with  merely  seeing;  new  things  are  pleasant 
only  because  they  are  not  old ;  and  we  take  everything  heart- 
ily and  naturally  in  the  right  way,  events  being  always  like 
knives,  which  either  serve  us  or  cut  us,  as  we  grasp  them  by 
the  blade  or  the  handle.  After  thirty,  we  carry  with  us  our 
scales  with  lawful  weights  stamped  by  experience,  and  our 
chemical  tests  acquired  by  study,  with  which  to  ponder  and 
assay  all  arts,  and  institutions,  and  manners,  and  to  ascertain 
either  their  absolute  worth,  or  their  merely  relative  value  to 
ourselves.  On  the  whole,  I  declared  myself  in  favor  of  the 
after-thirty  method — was  it  partly  (so  difficult  is  it  to  distin- 
guish between  opinions  and  personalities)  because  I  had  tried 
it  myself,  though  with  scales  so  imperfect  and  tests  so  inade- 
quate ?  Perhaps  so,  but  more  because  I  held  that  a  man  should 
have  travelled  thoroughly  round  himself  and  the  great  terra 
incognita  just  outside  and  inside  his  own  threshold,  before  he 

>  This  essay  is  taken  from  "  Putnam's  Magazine,"  vol.  iii.,  1854. 
381 


382 


LOWELL 


undertook  voyages  of  discovery  to  other  worlds.  Let  him  first 
thoroughly  explore  that  strange  country  laid  down  on  the  maps 
as  Seauton ;  let  him  look  down  into  its  craters  and  find  whether 
they  be  burnt  out  or  only  sleeping ;  let  him  know  between  the 
good  and  evil  fruits  of  its  passionate  tropics;  let  him  experi- 
ence how  healthful  are  its  serene  and  high-lying  table-lands ;  let 
him  be  many  times  driven  back  (till  he  wisely  consent  to  be 
baffled)  from  its  metaphysical  Northwest  passages  that  lead 
only  to  the  dreary  solitudes  of  a  sunless  world,  before  he  think 
himself  morally  equipped  for  travels  to  more  distant  regions. 
But  does  he  commonly  even  so  much  as  think  of  this,  or,  while 
buying  amplest  trunks  for  his  corporeal  apparel,  does  it  once 
occur  to  him  how  very  small  a  portmanteau  will  contain  all  his 
mental  and  spiritual  outfit?  Oftener,  it  is  true,  that  a  man 
who  could  scarce  be  induced  to  expose  his  unclothed  body,  even 
in  a  village  of  prairie-dogs,  will  complacently  display  a  mind 
as  naked  as  the  day  it  was  born,  without  so  much  as  a  fig-leaf 
of  acquirement  on  it,  in  every  gallery  of  Europe,  If  not  with 
a  robe  dyed  in  the  Tyrian  purple  of  imaginative  culture,  if  not 
with  the  close-fitting  active  dress  of  social  or  business  training 
— at  least,  my  dear  Storg,  one  might  provide  himself  with  the 
merest  waist-clout  of  modesty ! 

But  if  it  be  too  much  to  expect  men  to  traverse  and  survey 
themselves  before  they  go  abroad,  we  might  certainly  ask  that 
they  should  be  familiar  with  their  own  villages.  If  not  even  that, 
then  it  is  of  little  import  whither  they  go,  and  let  us  hope  that, 
by  seeing  how  calmly  their  own  narrow  neighborhood  bears 
their  departure,  they  may  be  led  to  think  that  the  circles  of 
disturbance  set  in  motion  by  the  fall  of  their  tiny  drop  into  the 
ocean  of  eternity,  will  not  have  a  radius  of  more  than  a  week 
in  any  direction ;  and  that  the  world  can  endure  the  subtraction 
of  even  a  justice  of  the  peace  with  provoking  equanimity.  In 
this  way,  at  least,  foreign  travel  may  do  them  good,  may  make 
them,  if  not  wiser,  at  any  rate  less  fussy.  Is  it  a  great  way  to 
go  to  school,  and  a  great  fee  to  pay  for  the  le3son  ?  We  cannot 
pay  too  much  for  that  genial  stoicism  which,  when  life  flouts  us 
and  says — Put  that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it! — can  puff  away 
with  as  sincere  a  relish  as  if  it  were  tobacco  of  Mount  Lebanon 
in  a  narghileh  of  Damascus. 

After  all,  my  dear  Storg,  it  is  to  know  things  that  one  has 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO  383 

need  to  travel,  and  not  men.  Those  force  us  to  come  to  them, 
but  these  come  to  us — sometimes  whether  we  will  or  no.  These 
exist  for  us  in  every  variety  in  our  own  town.  You  may  find 
your  antipodes  without  a  voyage  to  China;  he  lives  there,  just 
round  the  next  corner,  precise,  formal,  the  slave  of  precedent, 
making  all  his  tea-cups  with  a  break  in  the  edge,  because  his 
model  had  one,  and  your  fancy  decorates  him  with  an  endless- 
ness of  airy  pig-tail.  There,  too,  are  John  Bull,  Jean  Crapaud, 
Hans  Sauerkraut,  Pat  Murphy,  and  the  rest. 
It  has  been  well  said : 

"  He  needs  no  ship  to  cross  the  tide, 
Who,  in  the  lives  around  him,  sees 
Fair  window-prospects  opening  wide 
O'er  history's  fields  on  every  side, 
Rome,  Egypt,  England,  Ind,  and  Greece. 

"  Whatever  moulds  of  various  brain 
E'er  shaped  the  world  to  weal  or  woe — 
Whatever  empires  wax  and  wane — 
To  him  who  hath  not  eyes  in  vain, 
His  village-microcosm  can  show." 

But  things  are  good  for  nothing  out  of  their  natural  habitat.  If 
the  heroic  Barnum  had  succeeded  in  transplanting  Shake- 
speare's house  to  America  what  interest  would  it  have  had  for 
us,  torn  out  of  its  appropriate  setting  in  softly-hilled  Warwick- 
shire, which  showed  us  that  the  most  English  of  poets  must  be 
born  in  the  most  English  of  counties  ?  I  mean  by  a  Thing  that 
which  is  not  a  mere  spectacle,  that  which  the  mind  leaps  forth 
to,  as  it  also  leaps  to  the  mind,  as  soon  as  they  come  within  each 
other's  sphere  of  attraction,  and  with  instantaneous  coalition 
form  a  new  product — knowledge.  Such,  in  the  understanding 
it  gives  us  of  early  Roman  history,  is  the  little  territory  around 
Rome,  the  gentis  cunabula,  without  a  sight  of  which  Livy  and 
Niebuhr  and  the  maps  are  vain.  So,  too,  one  must  go  to 
Pompeii  and  the  Museo  Borbonico,  to  get  a  true  conception  of 
that  wondrous  artistic  nature  of  the  Greeks,  strong  enough, 
even  in  that  petty  colony,  to  survive  foreign  conquest  and  to 
assimilate  barbarian  blood,  showing  a  grace  and  fertility  of  in- 
vention, whose  Roman  copies  Raffaello  himself  could  only 
copy,  and  enchanting  even  the  base  utensils  of  the  kitchen  with 


384  LOWELL 

an  inevitable  sense  of  beauty  to  which  we  subterranean  North- 
men have  not  yet  so  much  as  dreamed  of  cHmbing.  Mere 
sights  one  can  see  quite  as  well  at  home.  Mont  Blanc  does  not 
tower  more  grandly  in  the  memory  than  did  the  dream-peak 
which  loomed  afar  on  the  morning  horizon  of  hope;  nor  did 
the  smoke-palm  of  Vesuvius  stand  more  erect  and  fair,  with 
tapering  stem  and  spreading  top,  in  that  Parthenopeian  air 
than  under  the  diviner  sky  of  imagination.  I  know  what  Shake- 
speare says  about  home-keeping  youths,  and  I  can  fancy  what 
you  will  add  about  America  being  interesting  only  as  a  phe- 
nomenon, and  uncomfortable  to  live  in,  because  we  have  not 
yet  done  with  getting  ready  to  live.  But  is  not  your  Europe, 
on  the  other  hand,  a  place  where  men  have  done  living  for  the 
present,  and  of  value  chiefly  because  of  the  men  who  had  done 
living  in  it  long  ago  ?  And  if,  in  our  rapidly-moving  country, 
one  feel  sometimes  as  if  he  had  his  home  in  a  railroad  train, 
is  there  not  also  a  satisfaction  in  knowing  that  one  is  going 
somewhere?  To  what  end  visit  Europe,  if  people  carry  with 
them,  as  most  do,  their  old  parochial  horizon,  going  hardly  as 
Americans  even,  much  less  as  men?  Have  we  not  both  seen 
persons  abroad  who  put  us  in  mind  of  parlor  goldfish  in  their 
vase,  isolated  in  that  little  globe  of  their  own  element,  incapable 
of  communication  with  the  strange  world  around  them,  a  show 
themselves,  while  it  was  always  doubtful  if  they  could  see  at  all 
beyond  the  limits  of  their  portable  prison?  The  wise  man 
travels  to  discover  himself ;  it  is  to  find  himself  out  that  he  goes 
out  of  himself  and  his  habitual  associations,  trying  everything 
in  turn  till  he  find  that  one  activity,  sovran  over  him  by  divine 
right,  toward  which  all  the  disbanded  powers  of  his  nature  and 
the  irregular  tendencies  of  his  life  gather  joyfully,  as  to  the 
common  rallying-point  of  their  loyalty. 

All  these  things  we  debated  while  the  ilex  logs  upon  the 
hearth  burned  down  to  tinkling  coals,  over  which  a  gray,  soft 
moss  of  ashes  grew  betimes,  mocking  the  poor  wood  with  a  pale 
travesty  of  that  green  and  gradual  decay  on  forest-floors,  its 
natural  end.  Already  the  clock  at  the  Capuccini  told  the  morn- 
ing quarters,  and  on  the  pauses  of  our  talk  no  sound  intervened 
but  the  mufiled  hoot  of  an  owl  in  the  near  convent-garden,  or 
the  rattling  tramp  of  a  patrol  of  that  French  army  which 
keeps  him  a  prisoner  in  his  own  city  who  claims  to  lock  and  un- 


CAMBRIDGE   THIRTY   YEARS  AGO  385 

lock  the  doors  of  heaven.  But  still  the  discourse  would  eddy 
round  one  obstinate  rocky  tenet  of  mine,  for  I  maintained,  you 
remember,  that  the  wisest  man  was  he  who  stayed  at  home; 
that  to  see  the  antiquities  of  the  Old  World  was  nothing,  since 
the  youth  of  the  world  was  really  no  farther  away  from  us  than 
our  own  youth;  and  that,  moreover,  we  had  also  in  America 
things  amazingly  old,  as  our  boys,  for  example.  Add,  that  in 
the  end  this  antiquity  is  a  matter  of  comparison,  which  skips 
from  place  to  place  as  nimbly  as  Emerson's  sphinx,  and  that 
one  old  thing  is  good  only  till  we  have  seen  an  older.  England 
is  ancient  till  we  go  to  Rome.  Etruria  dethrones  Rome,  but 
only  to  pass  this  sceptre  of  antiquity  which  so  lords  it  over 
our  fancies  to  the  Pelasgi,  from  whom  Egypt  straightway 
wrenches  it  to  give  it  up  in  turn  to  older  India.  And  whither 
then  ?  As  well  rest  upon  the  first  step,  since  the  effect  of  what 
is  old  upon  the  mind  is  single  and  positive,  not  cumulative. 
As  soon  as  a  thing  is  past  it  is  as  infinitely  far  away  from  us 
as  if  it  had  happened  millions  of  years  ago.  And  if  the  learned 
Huet  be  correct,  who  reckoned  that  every  human  thought  and 
record  could  be  included  in  ten  folios,  what  so  frightfully  old 
as  we  ourselves,  who  can,  if  we  choose,  hold  in  our  memories 
every  syllable  of  recorded  time,  from  the  first  crunch  of  Eve's 
teeth  in  the  apple,  downward,  being  thus  ideally  contemporary 
with  hoariest  Eld  ? 

"  Thy  pyramids  built  up  with  newer  might 
To  us  are  nothing  novel,  nothing  strange." 

Now,  my  dear  Storg,  you  know  my  (what  the  phrenologists 
call)  inhabitiveness  and  adhesiveness,  how  I  stand  by  the  old 
thought,  the  old  thing,  the  old  place,  and  the  old  friend,  till  I 
am  very  sure  I  have  got  a  better,  and  even  then  migrate  pain- 
fully. Remember  the  old  Arabian  story,  and  think  how  hard  it 
is  to  pick  up  all  the  pomegranate-seeds  of  an  opponent's  argu- 
ment, and  how,  as  long  as  one  remains,  you  are  as  far  from 
the  end  as  ever.  Since  I  have  you  entirely  at  my  mercy  (for 
you  cannot  answer  me  under  five  weeks)  you  will  not  be  sur- 
prised at  the  advent  of  this  letter.  I  had  always  one  impregna- 
ble position,  which  was,  that  however  good  other  places  might 
be,  there  was  only  one  in  which  we  could  be  born,  and  which 
therefore  possessed  a  quite  peculiar  and  inalienable  virtue.  We 
25 


386 


LOWELL 


had  the  fortune,  which  neither  of  us  has  had  reason  to  call 
other  than  good,  to  journey  together  through  the  green,  se- 
cluded valley  of  boyhood;  together  we  climbed  the  mountain 
wall  which  shut  it  in,  and  looked  upon  those  Italian  plains  of 
early  manhood ;  and,  since  then,  we  have  met  sometimes  by  a 
well,  or  broken  bread  together  at  an  oasis  in  the  arid  desert  of 
life,  as  it  truly  is.  With  this  letter  I  propose  to  make  you  my 
fellow-traveller  in  one  of  those  fireside  voyages  which,  as  we 
grow  older,  we  make  oftener  and  oftener  through  our  own 
past.  Without  leaving  your  elbow-chair,  you  shall  go  back  with 
me  thirty  years,  which  will  bring  you  among  things  and  per- 
sons as  thoroughly  preterite  as  Romulus  or  Numa.  For,  so 
rapid  are  our  changes  in  America,  that  the  transition  from  old 
to  new,  the  shifting  from  habits  and  associations  to  others  en- 
tirely different,  is  as  rapid  almost  as  the  pushing  in  of  one 
scene  and  the  drawing  out  of  another  on  the  stage.  And  it  is 
this  which  makes  America  so  interesting  to  the  philosophic 
student  of  history  and  man.  Here,  as  in  a  theatre,  the  great 
problems  of  anthropology,  which  in  the  old  world  were  ages  in 
solving,  but  which  are  solved,  leaving  only  a  dry  net  result; 
are  compressed,  as  it  were,  into  the  entertainment  of  a  few 
hours.  Here  we  have  I  know  not  how  many  epochs  of  history 
and  phases  of  civilization  contemporary  with  each  other,  nay, 
within  five  minutes  of  each  other  by  the  electric  telegraph.  In 
two  centuries  we  have  seen  rehearsed  the  dispersion  of  man 
from  a  small  point  over  a  whole  continent ;  we  witness  with  our 
own  eyes  the  action  of  those  forces  which  govern  the  great  mi- 
gration of  the  peoples,  now  historical  in  Europe ;  we  can  watch 
the  action  and  reaction  of  different  races,  forms  of  government, 
and  higher  or  lower  civilizations.  Over  there,  you  have  only 
the  dead  precipitate,  demanding  tedious  analysis ;  but  here  the 
elements  are  all  in  solution,  and  we  have  only  to  look  to  know 
them  all.  History,  which  every  day  makes  less  account  of  gov- 
ernors and  more  of  man,  must  find  here  the  compendious  key  to 
all  that  picture-writing  of  the  past.  Therefore  it  is,  my  dear 
Storg,  that  we  Yankees  may  still  esteem  our  America  a  place 
worth  living  in.  But  calm  your  apprehensions :  I  do  not  pro- 
pose to  drag  you  with  me  on  such  a  historical  circumnaviga- 
tion of  the  globe,  but  only  to  show  you  that  (however  needful 
it  may  be  to  go  abroad  for  the  study  of  aesthetics)  a  man  who 


CAMBRIDGE   THIRTY   YEARS   AGO  387 

uses  the  eyes  of  his  heart  may  find  also  pretty  bits  of  what  may 
be  called  the  social  picturesque,  and  little  landscapes  over  which 
that  Indian  summer  atmosphere  of  the  past  broods  as  sweetly 
and  tenderly  as  over  a  Roman  ruin.  Let  us  look  at  the  Cam- 
bridge of  thirty  years  since. 

The  seat  of  the  oldest  college  in  America,  it  had,  of  course, 
some  of  that  cloistered  quiet  which  characterizes  all  university 
towns.  But,  underlying  this,  it  had  an  idiosyncrasy  of  its  own. 
Boston  was  not  yet  a  city,  and  Cambridge  was  still  a  country  vil- 
lage, with  its  own  habits  and  traditions,  not  yet  feeling  too 
strongly  the  force  of  suburban  gravitation.  Approaching  it 
from  the  west  by  what  was  then  called  the  New  Road  (it  is  so 
called  no  longer,  for  we  change  our  names  whenever  we  can, 
to  the  great  detriment  of  all  historical  association)  you  would 
pause  on  the  brow  of  Symonds'  Hill  to  enjoy  a  view  singularly 
soothing  and  placid.  In  front  of  you  lay  the  town,  tufted  with 
elms,  lindens,  and  horse-chestnuts,  which  had  seen  Massachu- 
setts a  colony,  and  were  fortunately  unable  to  emigrate  with 
the  Tories  by  whom,  or  by  whose  fathers,  they  were  planted. 
Over  it  rose  the  noisy  belfry  of  the  college,  the  square,  brown 
tower  of  the  church,  and  the  slim,  yellow  spire  of  the  parish 
meeting-house,  by  no  means  ungraceful,  and  then  an  invariable 
characteristic  of  New  England  religious  architecture.  On  your 
right  the  Charles  slipped  smoothly  through  green  and  purple 
salt-meadows,  darkened,  here  and  there,  with  the  blossoming 
black-grass  as  with  a  stranded  cloud-shadow.  Over  these 
marshes,  level  as  water,  but  without  its  glare,  and  with  softer 
and  more  soothing  gradations  of  perspective,  the  eye  was  car- 
ried to  a  horizon  of  softly-rounded  hills.  To  your  left  hand, 
upon  the  Old  Road,  you  saw  some  half-dozen  dignified  old 
houses  of  the  colonial  time,  all  comfortably  fronting  southward. 
If  it  were  spring-time  the  rows  of  horse-chestnuts  along  the 
fronts  of  these  houses  showed,  through  every  crevice  of  their 
dark  heap  of  foliage,  and  on  the  end  of  every  drooping  limb, 
a  cone  of  pearly  flowers,  while  the  hill  behind  was  white  or 
rosy  with  the  crowding  blooms  of  various  fruit-trees.  There 
is  no  sound,  unless  a  horseman  clatters  over  the  loose  planks 
of  the  bridge,  while  his  antipodal  shadow  glides  silently  over 
the  mirrored  bridge  below,  or  unless 


388  LOWELL 

"  O  winged  rapture,  feathered  soul  of  spring, 
Blithe  voice  of  woods,  fields,  waters,  all  in  one, 
Pipe  blown  through  by  the  warm,  mild  breath  of  June, 
Shepherding  her  white  flocks  of  woolly  clouds, 
The  bobolink  has  come,  and  climbs  the  wind 
With  rippling  wings,  that  quaver,  not  for  flight, 
But  only  joy,  or,  .yielding  to  its  will. 
Runs  down,  a  brook  of  laughter,  through  the  air." 

Such  was  the  charmingly  rural  picture  which  he  who,  thirty 
years  ago,  went  eastward  over  Symonds'  Hill,  had  given  him 
for  nothing  to  hang  in  the  gallery  of  memory.  But  we  are  a 
city  now,  and  Common  Councils  have  as  yet  no  notion  of  the 
truth  (learned  long  ago  by  many  a  European  hamlet)  that 
picturesqueness  adds  to  the  actual  money  value  of  a  town.  To 
save  a  few  dollars  in  gravel,  they  have  cut  a  kind  of  dry  ditch 
through  the  hill,  where  you  suffocate  with  dust  in  summer, 
or  flounder  through  waist-deep  snow-drifts  in  winter,  with  no 
prospect  but  the  crumbling  earth-walls  on  each  side.  The  land- 
scape was  carried  away,  cart-load  by  cart-load,  and,  deposited 
on  the  roads,  forms  a  part  of  that  unfathomable  pudding,  which 
has,  I  fear,  driven  many  a  teamster  and  pedestrian  to  the  use  of 
phrases  not  commonly  found  in  English  dictionaries. 

We  called  it  "  the  village  "  then  (I  speak  of  Old  Cambridge), 
and  it  was  essentially  an  English  village,  quiet,  unspeculative, 
without  enterprise,  sufficing  to  itself,  and  only  showing  such 
differences  from  the  original  type  as  the  public  school  and  the 
system  of  town  government  might  superinduce.  A  few  houses, 
chiefly  old,  stood  around  the  bare  common,  with  ample  elbow- 
room,  and  old  women,  capped  and  spectacled,  still  peered 
through  the  same  windows  from  which  they  had  watched  Lord 
Percy's  artillery  rumble  by  to  Lexington,  or  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  handsome  Virginia  general  who  had  come  to  wield  our 
homespun  Saxon  chivalry.  People  were  still  living  who  re- 
gretted the  late  unhappy  separation  from  the  mother  island, 
who  had  seen  no  gentry  since  the  Vassalls  went,  and  who 
thought  that  Boston  had  ill  kept  the  day  of  her  patron  saint, 
Botolph,  on  June  17,  1775.  The  hooks  were  to  be  seen  from 
which  had  swung  the  hammocks  of  Burgoyne's  captive  red- 
coats. If  memory  does  not  deceive  me,  women  still  washed 
clothes  in  the  town-spring,  clear  as  that  of  Bandusia.  One 
coach  sufficed  for  all  the  travel  to  the  metropolis.    Commence- 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO  389 

ment  had  not  ceased  to  be  the  great  holiday  of  the  Puritan 
Commonwealth,  and  a  fitting  one  it  was — the  festival  of  Santa 
Scolastica,  whose  triumphal  path  one  may  conceive  strewn 
with  leaves  of  spelling-book  instead  of  bay.  The  students 
(scholars  they  were  called  then)  wore  their  sober  uniform,  not 
ostentatiously  distinctive  nor  capable  of  rousing  democratic 
envy,  and  the  old  lines  of  caste  were  blurred  rather  than  rubbed 
out,  as  servitor  was  softened  into  beneficiary.  The  Spanish 
king  was  sure  that  the  gesticulating  student  was  either  mad  or 
reading  Don  Quixotte,  and  if,  in  those  days,  you  met  a  youth 
swinging  his  arms  and  talking  to  himself,  you  might  conclude 
that  he  was  either  a  lunatic  or  one  who  was  to  appear  in  a 
"  part "  at  the  next  commencement.  A  favorite  place  for  the 
rehearsal  of  these  orations  was  the  retired  amphitheatre  of  the 
Gravelpit,  perched  unregarded  on  whose  dizzy  edge,  I  have 
heard  many  a  burst  of  plus-quam-Ciceronian  eloquence,  and 
(often  repeated)  the  regular  saluto  vos  prcestantissimas,  etc., 
which  every  year  (with  a  glance  at  the  gallery)  causes  a  flutter 
among  the  fans  innocent  of  Latin,  and  delights  to  applauses  of 
conscious  superiority  the  youth  almost  as  innocent  as  they. 
It  is  curious,  by  the  way,  to  note  how  plainly  one  can  feel  the 
pulse  of  self  in  the  plaudits  of  an  audience.  At  a  political  meet- 
ing, if  the  enthusiasm  of  the  lieges  hang  fire,  it  may  be  ex- 
ploded at  once  by  an  allusion  to  their  intelligence  or  patriotism, 
and  at  a  literary  festival,  the  first  Latin  quotation  draws  the 
first  applause,  the  clapping  of  hands  being  intended  as  a  tribute 
to  our  own  familiarity  with  that  sonorous  tongue,  and  not  at 
all  as  an  approval  of  the  particular  sentiment  conveyed  in  it. 
For  if  the  orator  should  say,  "  Well  has  Tacitus  remarked, 
Americani  omnes  sunt  nafuralifer  fiires  et  stulti".  it  would  be 
all  the  same.  But  the  Gravelpit  was  patient,  if  irresponsive; 
nor  did  the  declaimer  always  fail  to  bring  down  the  house,  bits 
of  loosened  earth  falling  now  and  then  from  the  precipitous 
walls,  their  cohesion  perhaps  overcome  by  the  vibrations  of 
the  voice,  and  happily  satirizing  the  efiFect  of  most  popular  dis- 
courses, which  prevail  rather  with  the  clay  than  with  the  spirit- 
ual part  of  the  hearer.  Was  it  possible  for  us  in  those  days  to 
conceive  of  a  greater  potentate  than  the  president  of  the  uni- 
versity, in  his  square  doctor's  cap,  that  still  filially  recalled  Ox- 
ford and  Cambridge?    If  there  was  a  doubt,  it  was  suggested 


390  LOWELL 

only  by  the  Governor,  and  even  by  him  on  artillery  election  days 
alone,  superbly  martial  with  epaulets  and  buckskin  breeches, 
and  bestriding  the  war-horse,  promoted  to  that  solemn  duty  for 
his  tameness  and  steady  habits. 

Thirty  years  ago  the  town  had  indeed  a  character.  Railways 
and  omnibuses  had  not  rolled  flat  all  little  social  prominences 
and  peculiarities,  making  every  man  as  much  a  citizen  every- 
where as  at  home.  No  Charlestown  boy  could  come  to  our 
annual  festival  without  fighting  to  avenge  a  certain  traditional 
porcine  imputation  against  the  inhabitants  of  that  historic  lo- 
cality, to  which  our  youth  gave  vent,  in  fanciful  imitations  of  the 
dialect  of  the  sty,  or  derisive  shouts  of  "  Charlestown  hogs !  " 
The  penny  newspaper  had  not  yet  silenced  the  tripod  of  the  bar- 
ber, oracle  of  news.  Everybody  knew  everybody,  and  all  about 
everybody,  and  village  wit,  whose  high  'change  was  around  the 
little  market-house  in  the  town-square,  had  labelled  every  more 
marked  individuality  with  nick-names  that  clung  like  burs. 
Things  were  established  then,  and  men  did  not  run  through  all 
the  figures  on  the  dial  of  society  so  swiftly  as  now,  when  hurry 
and  competition  seem  to  have  quite  unhung  the  modulating  pen- 
dulum of  steady  thrift,  and  competent  training.  Some  slow- 
minded  persons  even  followed  their  father's  trade,  a  humiliat- 
ing spectacle,  rarer  every  day.  We  had  our  established  loafers, 
topers,  proverb-mongers,  barber,  parson,  nay,  postmaster,  whose 
tenure  was  for  life.  The  great  political  engine  did  not  then 
come  down  at  regular  quadrennial  intervals,  like  a  nail-cutting 
machine,  to  make  all  official  lives  of  a  standard  length,  and  to 
generate  lazy  and  intriguing  expectancy.  Life  flowed  in  recog- 
nized channels,  narrower,  perhaps,  but  with  all  the  more  indi- 
viduality and  force. 

There  was  but  one  white-and-yellow-washer,  whose  own 
cottage,  fresh-gleaming  every  June  through  grape-vine  and 
creeper,  was  his  only  sign  and  advertisement.  He  was  said  to 
possess  a  secret,  which  died  with  him  like  that  of  Luca  della 
Robbia,  and  certainly  conceived  all  colors  but  white  and  yellow 
to  savor  of  savagery,  civilizing  the  stems  of  his  trees  annually 
with  liquid  lime,  and  meditating  how  to  extend  that  candid 
baptism  even  to  the  leaves.  His  pie-plants  (the  best  in  town), 
compulsory  monastics,  blanched  under  barrels,  each  in  his  little 
hermitage,  a  vegetable  Certosa.     His  fowls,  his  ducks,   his 


CAMBRIDGE   THIRTY   YEARS   AGO  391 

geese,  could  not  show  so  much  as  a  gray  feather  among  them, 
and  he  would  have  given  a  year's  earnings  for  a  white  peacock. 
The  flowers  which  decked  his  little  door-yard  were  whitest 
China-asters  and  goldenest  sunflowers,  which  last,  backsliding 
from  their  traditional  Parsee  faith,  used  to  puzzle  us  urchins 
not  a  little  by  staring  brazenly  every  way  except  towards  the 
sun.  Celery,  too,  he  raised,  whose  virtue  is  its  paleness,  and 
the  silvery  onion,  and  turnip,  which,  though  outwardly  con- 
forming to  the  green  heresies  of  summer,  nourish  a  purer  faith 
subterraneously,  like  early  Christians  in  the  catacombs.  In  an 
obscure  corner  grew  the  sanguine  beet,  tolerated  only  for  its 
usefulness  in  allaying  the  asperities  of  Saturday's  salt  fish.  He 
loved  winter  better  than  summer,  because  nature  then  played 
the  whitewasher,  and  challenged  with  her  snows  the  scarce  in- 
ferior purity  of  his. overalls  and  neck-cloth.  I  fancy  that  he 
never  rightly  liked  commencement,  for  bringing  so  many  black 
coats  together.  He  founded  no  school.  Others  might  essay 
his  art,  and  were  allowed  to  try  their  'prentice  hands  on  fences 
and  the  like  coarse  subjects,  but  the  ceiling  of  every  housewife 
waited  on  the  leisure  of  Newman  (ichneumon  the  students 
called  him  for  his  diminutiveness),  nor  would  consent  to  other 
brush  than  his.  There  was  also  but  one  brewer — Lewis,  who 
made  the  village  beer,  both  spruce  and  ginger,  a  grave  and 
amiable  Ethiopian,  making  a  discount  always  to  the  boys,  and 
wisely,  for  they  were  his  chiefest  patrons.  He  wheeled  his 
whole  stock  in  a  white-roofed  handcart,  on  whose  front  a  sign- 
board presented  at  either  end  an  insurrectionary  bottle,  yet  in- 
surgent after  no  mad  Gallic  fashion,  but  soberly  and  Saxonly 
discharging  itself  into  the  restraining  formulary  of  a  tumbler, 
symbolic  of  orderly  prescription.  The  artist  had  struggled 
manfully  with  the  difficulties  of  his  subject,  but  had  not  suc- 
ceeded so  well  that  we  did  not  often  debate  in  which  of  the  twin 
bottles  spruce  was  typified,  and  in  which  ginger.  We  always 
believed  that  Lewis  mentally  distinguished  between  them,  but 
by  some  peculiarity  occult  to  exoteric  eyes.  This  ambulatory 
chapel  of  the  Bacchus  that  gives  the  colic,  but  not  inebriates, 
only  appeared  at  the  commencement  holidays.  The  lad  who 
bought  of  Lewis  laid  out  his  money  well,  getting  respect  as 
well  as  beer,  three  "  sirs  "  to  every  glass — "  Beer,  sir?  yes,  sir: 
spruce  or  ginger,  sir  ?  "     I  can  yet  recall  the  innocent  pride 


392  LOWELL 

with  which  I  walked  away  after  that  somewhat  risky  ceremony 
(for  a  bottle  sometimes  blew  up),  dilated  not  alone  with  car- 
bonic-acid gas,  but  with  the  more  ethereal  fixed  air  of  that 
titular  flattery.  Nor  was  Lewis  proud.  When  he  tried  his 
fortunes  in  the  capital  on  election  days,  and  stood  amid  a  row 
of  rival  venders  in  the  very  flood  of  custom,  he  never  forgot  his 
small  fellow-citizens,  but  welcomed  them  with  an  assuring 
smile,  and  served  them  with  the  first. 

The  barber's  shop  was  a  museum,  scarce  second  to  the  larger 
one  of  Greenwoods  in  the  metropolis.  The  boy  who  was  to 
be  clipped  there  was  always  accompanied  to  the  sacrifice  by 
troops  of  friends,  who  thus  inspected  the  curiosities  gratis. 

While  the  watchful  eye  of  R wandered  to  keep  in  check 

these  rather  unscrupulous  explorers,  the  unpausing  shears 
would  sometimes  overstep  the  boundaries  of  strict  tonsorial 
prescription,  and  make  a  notch  through  which  the  phrenologi- 
cal developments  could  be  distinctly  seen.    As  Michael  Angelo's 

design  was  modified  by  the  shape  of  his  block,  so  R ,  rigid 

in  artistic  proprieties,  would  contrive  to  give  an  appearance 
of  design  to  this  aberration,  by  making  it  the  key-note  of  his 
work,  and  reducing  the  whole  head  to  an  appearance  of  pre- 
mature baldness.  What  a  charming  place  it  was,  how  full  of 
wonder  and  delight!  The  sunny  little  room,  fronting  south- 
west upon  the  common,  rang  with  canaries  and  Java  sparrows, 
nor  were  the  familiar  notes  of  robin,  thrush,  and  bobolink  want- 
ing.   A  large  white  cockatoo  harangued  vaguely,  at  intervals, 

in  what  we  believed  (on  R 's  authority)  to  be  the  Hottentot 

language.  He  had  an  unveracious  air,  but  in  what  inventions 
of  former  grandeur  he  was  indulging  in,  what  sweet  South- 
African  Argos  he  was  remembering,  what  tropical  heats  and 
giant  trees  by  unconjectured  rivers,  known  only  to  the  wallow- 
ing hippopotamus,  we  could  only  guess  at.  The  walls  were 
covered  with  curious  old  Dutch  prints,  bills  of  albatross  and 
penguin,  and  whales'  teeth  fantastically  engraved.  There  was 
Frederick  the  Great,  with  head  drooped  plottingly,  and  keen 
side-long  glance  from  under  the  three-cornered  hat.  There 
hung  Bonaparte,  too,  the  long-haired,  haggard  general  of  Italy, 
his  eyes  sombre  with  prefigured  destiny;  and  there  was  his 
island  grave ;  the  dream  and  the  fulfilment.  Good  store  of  sea- 
fights  there  was  also ;  above  all,  Paul  Jones  in  the  Bonhomme 


CAMBRIDGE   THIRTY   YEARS   AGO  393 

Richard,  the  smoke  rolling  courteously  to  leeward,  that  we 
might  see  him  dealing  thunderous  wreck  to  the  two  hostile  ves- 
sels, each  twice  as  large  as  his  own,  and  the  reality  of  the  scene 
corroborated  by  streaks  of  red  paint  leaping  from  the  mouth 
of  every  gun.  Suspended  over  the  fireplace,  with  the  curling- 
tongs,  were  an  Indian  bow  and  arrows,  and  in  the  corners  of 
the  room  stood  New  Zealand  paddles  and  war-clubs  quaintly 
carved.    The  model  of  a  ship  in  glass  we  variously  estimated 

to  be  worth  from  a  hundred  to  a  thousand  dollars,  R rather 

favoring  the  higher  valuation,  though  never  distinctly  com- 
mitting himself.  Among  these  wonders,  the  only  suspicious 
one  was  an  Indian  tomahawk,  which  had  too  much  the  peace- 
ful look  of  a  shingling-hatchet.  Did  any  rarity  enter  the  town, 
it  gravitated  naturally  to  these  walls,  to  the  very  nail  that 
waited  to  receive  it,  and  where,  the  day  after  its  accession,  it 
seemed  to  have  hung  a  lifetime.    We  always  had  a  theory  that 

R was  immensely  rich   (how  could  he  possess  so  much 

and  be  otherwise?)  and  that  his  pursuing  his  calling  was  an 
amiable  eccentricity.  He  was  a  conscientious  artist  and  never 
submitted  it  to  the  choice  of  his  victim  whether  he  would  be 
perfumed  or  not.  Faithfully  was  the  bottle  shaken  and  the 
odoriferous  mixture  rubbed  in,  a  fact  redolent  to  the  whole 
school-room  in  the  afternoon.  Sometimes  the  persuasive  ton- 
sor  would  impress  one  of  the  attendant  volunteers  and  reduce 
his  poll  to  shoe-brush  crispness,  at  cost  of  the  reluctant  nine- 
pence  hoarded  for  Fresh  Pond  and  the  next  half-holiday. 

Shall  the  two  groceries  want  their  vates  sacer,  where  E.  & 
W.  I.  goods  and  country  ^rodooce  were  sold  with  an  energy 
mitigated  by  the  quiet  genius  of  the  place,  and  where  strings 
of  urchins  waited,  each  with  cent  in  hand,  for  the  unweighed 
dates  (thus  giving  an  ordinary  business  transaction  all  the  ex- 
citement of  a  lottery),  and  buying,  not  only  that  cloying  sweet- 
ness, but  a  dream  also  of  Egypt,  and  palm-trees,  and  Arabs, 
in  which  vision  a  print  of  the  Pyramids  in  our  geography  tyran- 
nized like  that  taller  thought  of  Cowper's  ? 

At  one  of  these  the  unwearied  students  used  to  ply  a  joke 
handed  down  from  class  to  class.  Enter  A,  and  asks  gravely, 
"  Have  you  any  sour  apples.  Deacon  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  I  haven't  any  just  now  that  are  exactly  sour;  but 
there's  the  bell-flower  apple,  and  folks  that  like  a  sour  apple 
generally  like  that."    {Exit  A.) 


394 


LOWELL 


Enter  B.    "  Have  you  any  sweet  apples,  Deacon  ?  " 
"  Well,  no,  I  haven't  any  just  now  that  are  exactly  sweet ;  but 
there's  the  bell-flower  apple,  and  folks  that  like  a  sweet  apple 
generally  like  that."     {Exit  B.) 

There  is  not  even  a  tradition  of  any  one's  ever  having  turned 
the  wary  deacon's  flank,  and  his  Laodicean  apples  persisted  to 
the  end,  neither  one  thing  nor  another.  Or  shall  the  two  town- 
constables  be  forgotten,  in  whom  the  law  stood  worthily  and 
amply  embodied,  fit  either  of  them  to  fill  the  uniform  of  an 
English  beadle?  Grim  and  silent  as  Ninevite  statues  they 
stood  on  each  side  of  the  meeting-house  door  at  commencement, 
propped  by  long  staves  of  blue  and  red,  on  which  the  Indian 
with  bow  and  arrow,  and  the  mailed  arm  with  the  sword,  hinted 
at  the  invisible  sovereignty  of  the  State  ready  to  reinforce  them, 
as 

"  For  Achilles'  portrait  stood  a  spear 
Grasped  in  an  armed  hand." 

Stalwart  and  rubicund  men  they  were,  second  only,  if  second, 

to  S ,  champion  of  the  county,  and  not  incapable  of  genial 

unbendings  when  the  fasces  were  laid  aside.  One  of  them 
still  survives  in  octogenarian  vigor,  the  Herodotus  of  village 
and  college  legend,  and  may  it  be  long  ere  he  depart,  to  carry 
with  him  the  pattern  of  a  courtesy,  now,  alas !  old-fashioned, 
but  which  might  profitably  make  part  of  the  instruction  of  our 
youth  among  the  other  humanities ! 

In  those  days  the  population  was  almost  wholly  without 
foreign  admixture.  Two  Scotch  gardeners  there  were — Rule, 
whose  daughter  (glimpsed  perhaps  at  church,  or  possibly  the 
mere  Miss  Harris  of  fancy)  the  students  nicknamed  Anarchy 
or  Miss  Rule — and  later  Eraser,  whom  whiskey  sublimed  into 
a  poet,  full  of  bloody  histories  of  the  Forty-twa,  and  showing 
an  imaginary  French  bullet,  sometimes  in  one  leg,  sometimes 
in  the  other.  With  this  claim  to  a  military  distinction  he  adroit- 
ly contrived  to  mingle  another  to  a  natural  one,  asserting  dou- 
ble teeth  all  round  his  jaws,  and  having  tHus  created  two  sets 
of  doubts,  silenced  both  at  once  by  a  single  demonstration,  dis- 
playing the  grinders  to  the  confusion  of  the  infidel. 

The  old  court-house  stood  then  upon  the  square.  It  has 
shrunk  back  out  of  sight  now,  and  students  box  and  fence 


CAMBRIDGE   THIRTY   YEARS  AGO  395 

where  Parsons  once  laid  down  the  law,  and  Ames  and  Dexter 
showed  their  skill  in  the  fence  of  argument.  Times  have 
changed,  and  manners,  since  Chief  Justice  Dana  (father  of 
Richard  the  First,  and  grandfather  of  Richard  the  Second) 
caused  to  be  arrested  for  contempt  of  court  a  butcher  who  had 
come  in  without  a  coat  to  witness  the  administration  of  his 
country's  laws,  and  who  thus  had  his  curiosity  exemplarily 
gratified.  Times  have  changed  also  since  the  cellar  beneath 
it  was  tenanted  by  the  twin  brothers  Snow.  Oyster-men  were 
they  indeed,  silent  in  their  subterranean  burrow,  and  taking 
the  ebbs  and  floods  of  custom  with  bivalvian  serenity.  Careless 
of  the  months  with  an  R  in  them,  the  maxim  of  Snow  ( for  we 
knew  them  but  as  a  unit)  was,  "  When  'ysters  are  good,  they 

are  good;    and  when  they  ain't,  they  isn't."     Grecian  F 

(may  his  shadow  never  be  less!)  tells  this,  his  great  laugh  ex- 
pected all  the  while  from  deep  vaults  of  chest,  and  then  coming 
in  at  the  close,  hearty,  contagious,  mounting  with  the  measured 
tread  of  a  jovial  but  stately  butler  who  brings  ancientest  good- 
fellowship  from  exhaustless  bins,  and  enough,  without  other 
sauce,  to  give  a  flavor  of  stalled  ox  to  a  dinner  of  herbs.  Let 
me  preserve  here  an  anticipatory  elegy  upon  the  Snows,  writ- 
ten years  ago  by  some  nameless  college  rhymer: 


DIFFUGERE   NIVES 

Here  lies,  or  lie — decide  the  question,  you. 

If  they  were  two  in  one  or  one  in  two — 

P.  &  S.  Snow,  whose  memory  shall  not  fade, 

Castor  and  Pollux  of  the  oyster-trade : 

Hatched  from  one  egg,  at  once  the  shell  they  burst, 

(The  last,  perhaps,  a  P.  S.  to  the  first,) 

So  homoousian  both  in  look  and  soul, 

So  undiscernibly  a  single  whole, 

That,  whether  P.  was  S.,  or  S.  was  P., 

Surpassed  all  skill  in  etymology; 

One  kept  the  shop  at  once,  and  all  we  know 

Is  that  together  they  were  the  Great  Snow, 

A  snow  not  deep,  yet  with  a  crust  so  thick 

It  never  melted  to  the  son  of  Tick ; 

Perpetual?  nay,  our  region  was  too  low, 

Too  warm,  too  southern,  for  perpetual  Snow ; 

Still,  like  fair  Leda's  sons,  to  whom  'twas  given 

To  take  their  turns  in  Hades  and  in  Heaven, 


396  LOWELL 

Our  Dioscuri  new  would  bravely  share 

The  cellar's  darkness  and  the  upper  air ; 

Twice  every  year  would  each  the  shades  escape. 

And,  like  a  sea-bird,  seek  the  wave-washed  Cape, 

Where  (Rumor  voiced)  one  spouse  sufficed  for  both; 

No  bigamist,  for  she  upon  her  oath. 

Unskilled  in  letters,  could  not  make  a  guess 

At  any  difference  twixt  P.  and  S. — 

A  thing  not  marvellous,  since  Fame  agrees 

They  were  as  little  different  as  two  peas, 

And  she,  like  Paris,  when  his  Helen  laid 

Her  hand  'mid  snows  from  Ida's  top  conveyed 

To  cool  their  wine  of  Chios,  could  not  know, 

Between  those  rival  candors,  which  was  Snow. 

Whiche'er  behind  the  counter  chanced  to  be 

Oped  oysters  oft,  his  clam-shells  seldom  he  ; 

If  e'er  he  laughed,  'twas  with  no  loud  guffaw. 

The  fun  warmed  through  him  with  a  gradual  thaw : 

The  nicer  shades  of  wit  were  not  his  gift, 

Nor  was  it  hard  to  sound  Snow's  simple  drift; 

His  were  plain  jokes,  that  many  a  time  before 

Had  set  his  tarry  messmates  in  a  roar, 

When  floundering  cod  beslimed  the  deck's  wet  planks— 

The  humorous  specie  of  Newfoundland  Banks. 

"  But  Snow  is  gone,  and,  let  us  hope,  sleeps  well, 
Buried  (his  last  breath  asked  it)  in  a  shell; 
Him  on  the  Stygian  shore  my  fancy  sees 
Noting  choice  shoals  for  oyster  colonies, 
Or,  at  a  board  stuck  full  of  ghostly  forks. 
Opening  for  practice  visionary  Yorks. 
And  whither  he  has  gone,  may  we  too  go — 
Since  no  hot  place  were  fit  for  keeping  Snow !  " 

Cambridge  has  long  had  its  port,  but  the  greater  part  of  its 
maritime  trade  was,  thirty  years  ago,  intrusted  to  a  single  Argo, 
the  sloop  Harvard,  which  belonged  to  the  college,  and  made 
annual  voyages  to  that  vague  Orient  known  as  Down  East, 
bringing  back  the  wood  that,  in  those  days,  gave  to  winter  life 
at  Harvard  a  crackle  and  a  cheerfulness,  for  the  loss  of  which 
the  greater  warmth  of  anthracite  hardly  compensates.  New 
England  life,  to  be  genuine,  must  have  in  it  some  sentiment  of 
the  sea — it  was  this  instinct  that  printed  the  device  of  the  pine- 
tree  on  the  old  money  and  the  old  flag — and  these  periodic 
ventures  of  the  sloop  Harvard  made  the  old  viking  fibre  vibrate 
in  the  hearts  of  all  the  village  boys.    What  a  vista  of  mystery 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY   YEARS   AGO  397 

and  adventure  did  her  sailing  open  to  us!  With  what  pride 
did  we  hail  her  return !  She  was  our  scholiast  upon  Robinson 
Crusoe  and  the  mutiny  of  the  Bounty.  Her  captain  still  lords 
it  over  our  memories,  the  greatest  sailor  that  ever  sailed  the 
seas,  and  we  should  not  look  at  Sir  John  Franklin  himself  with 
such  admiring  interest  as  that  with  which  we  enhaloed  some 
larger  boy  who  had  made  a  voyage  in  her,  and  had  come  back 
without  braces  to  his  trousers  (gallowses  we  called  them),  and 
squirting  ostentatiously  the  juice  of  that  weed  which  still  gave 
him  little  private  returns  of  something  very  like  sea-sickness. 
All  our  shingle  vessels  were  shaped  and  rigged  by  her,  who 
was  our  glass  of  naval  fashion  and  our  mould  of  aquatic  form. 
We  had  a  secret  and  wild  delight  in  believing  that  she  carried 
a  gun,  and  imagined  her  sending  grape  and  canister  among  the 
treacherous  savages  of  Oldtown.  Inspired  by  her  were  those 
first  essays  at  navigation  on  the  Winthrop  duck-pond,  of  the 
plucky  boy  who  was  afterwards  to  serve  two  famous  years  be- 
fore the  mast. 

The  greater  part  of  what  is  now  Cambridgeport  was  then 
(in  the  native  dialect)  a  "  huckleberry  pastur."  Woods  were 
not  wanting  on  its  outskirts,  of  pine,  and  oak,  and  maple,  and 
the  rarer  tupelo  with  downward  limbs.  Its  veins  did  not  draw 
their  blood  from  the  quiet  old  heart  of  the  village,  but  it  had  a 
distinct  being  of  its  own,  and  was  rather  a  great  caravansary 
than  a  suburb.  The  chief  feature  of  the  place  was  its  inns,  of 
which  there  were  five,  with  vast  barns  and  court  yards,  which 
the  railroad  was  to  make  as  silent  and  deserted  as  the  palaces 
of  Nimroud.  Great  white-topped  wagons,  each  drawn  by  dou- 
ble files  of  six  or  eight  horses,  with  its  dusty  bucket  swinging 
from  the  hinder  axle,  and  its  grim  bull-dog  trotting  silent  under- 
neath, or  in  midsummer  panting  on  the  lofty  perch  beside  the 
driver  (how  elevated  thither  baffled  conjecture),  brought  all 
the  wares  and  products  of  the  country  to  their  mart  and  seaport 
in  Boston.  Those  filled  the  inn-yards,  or  were  ranged  side  by 
side  under  broad-roofed  sheds,  and  far  into  the  night  the  mirth 
of  their  lusty  drivers  clamored  from  the  red-curtained  bar-room, 
while  the  single  lantern,  swaying  to  and  fro  in  the  black  cavern 
of  the  stables,  made  a  Rembrandt  of  the  group  of  hostlers  and 
horses  below.  There  were,  beside  the  taverns,  some  huge  square 
stores  where  groceries  were  sold,  some  houses,  by  whom  or  why 


398 


LOWELL 


inhabitd  was  to  us  boys  a  problem,  and,  on  the  ed^e  of  the 
marsh,  a  currier's  shop,  where,  at  high  tide,  on  a  floating  plat- 
form, men  were  always  beating  skins  in  a  way  to  remind  one 
of  Don  Quixote's  fulling-mills.  Nor  did  these  make  all  the 
port.  As  there  is  always  a  Coming  Man  who  never  comes,  so 
there  is  a  man  who  always  comes  (it  may  be  only  a  quarter  of 
an  hour)  too  early.  This  man,  so  far  as  the  port  is  concerned, 
was  Rufus  Davenport.  Looking  at  the  marshy  flats  of  Cam- 
bridge, and  considering  their  nearness  to  Boston,  he  resolved 
that  there  should  grow  up  a  suburban  Venice.  Accordingly, 
the  marshes  were  bought,  canals  were  dug,  ample  for  the  com- 
merce of  both  Indies,  and  four  or  five  rows  of  brick  houses 
were  built  to  meet  the  first  wants  of  the  wading  settlers 
who  were  expected  to  rush  in — whence?  This  singular 
question  had  never  occurred  to  the  enthusiastic  projector. 
There  are  laws  which  govern  human  migrations  quite  beyond 
the  control  of  the  speculator,  as  many  a  man  with  desirable 
building-lots  has  discovered  to  his  cost.  Why  mortal  men  will 
pay  more  for  a  chess-board  square  in  that  swamp,  than  for  an 
acre  on  the  breezy  upland  close  by,  who  shall  say  ?  And  again, 
why,  having  shown  such  a  passion  for  your  swamp,  they  are 
so  coy  of  mine,  who  shall  say?  Not  certainly  any  one  who, 
like  Davenport,  had  got  up  too  early  for  his  generation.  If  we 
could  only  carry  that  slow,  imperturbable  old  clock  of  Oppor- 
tunity, that  never  strikes  a  second  too  soon  or  too  late,  in  our 
fobs,  and  push  the  hands  forward  as  we  can  those  of  our 
watches!  With  a  foreseeing  economy  of  space  which  now 
seems  ludicrous,  the  roofs  of  this  forlorn-hope  of  houses  were 
made  flat,  that  the  swarming  population  might  have  a  place  to 
dry  their  clothes.  But  A.  U.  C.  30  showed  the  same  view  as 
A.  U.  C.  I — only  that  the  brick  blocks  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  struck  by  a  malaria.  The  dull  weed  upholstered  the  de- 
caying wharves,  and  the  only  freight  that  heaped  them  was  the 
kelp  and  eel-grass  left  by  higher  floods.  Instead  of  a  Venice, 
behold  a  Torzelo !  The  unfortunate  projector  took  to  the  last 
refuge  of  the  unhappy — book-making,  and  bored  the  reluctant 
public  with  what  he  called  a  Right-aim  Testament,  prefaced 
by  a  recommendation  from  General  Jackson,  who  perhaps,  from 
its  title,  took  it  for  some  treatise  on  ball-practice. 

But  even  Cambridge,  my  dear  Storg,  did  not  want  associa- 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO  399 

tions  poetic  and  venerable.  The  stranger  who  took  the  "  Hour- 
ly "  at  Old  Cambridge,  if  he  were  a  physiognomist  and  student 
of  character  might  perhaps  have  had  his  curiosity  excited  by 
a  person  who  mounted  the  coach  at  the  port.  So  refined  was 
his  whole  appearance,  so  fastidiously  neat  his  apparel — but 
with  a  neatness  that  seemed  less  the  result  of  care  and  plan 
than  a  something  as  proper  to  the  man  as  whiteness  to  the 
lily — that  you  would  have  at  once  classed  him  with  those 
individuals,  rarer  than  great  captains  and  almost  as  rare  as 
great  poets,  whom  nature  sends  into  the  world  to  fill  the  arduous 
office  of  gentleman.  Were  you  ever  emperor  of  that  Barataria 
which  under  your  peaceful  sceptre  would  present,  of  course,  a 
model  of  government,  this  remarkable  person  should  be  Duke 
of  Bienseance  and  Master  of  Ceremonies.  There  are  some  men 
whom  destiny  has  endowed  with  the  faculty  of  external  neat- 
ness, whose  clothes  are  repellent  of  dust  and  mud,  whose  un- 
withering  white  neck-cloths  persevere  to  the  day's  end,  unap- 
peasably  seeing  the  sun  go  down  upon  their  starch,  and  whose 
linen  makes  you  fancy  them  heirs  in  the  maternal  line  to  the 
instincts  of  all  the  washerwomen  from  Eve  downward.  There 
are  others  whose  inward  natures  possess  this  fatal  cleanness, 
incapable  of  moral  dirt-spot.  You  are  not  long  in  discovering 
that  the  stranger  combines  in  himself  both  these  properties.  A 
nimbus  of  hair,  fine  as  an  infant's  and  early  white,  showing  re- 
finement of  organization  and  the  predominance  of  the  spiritual 
over  the  physical,  undulated  and  floated  around  a  face  that 
seemed  like  pale  flame,  and  over  which  the  flitting  shades  of 
expression  chased  each  other,  fugitive  and  gleaming  as  waves 
upon  a  field  of  rye.  It  was  a  countenance  that,  without  any 
beauty  of  feature,  was  very  beautiful.  I  have  said  that  it 
looked  like  pale  flame,  and  can  find  no  other  words  for  the  ini- 
pression  it  gave.  Here  was  a  man  all  soul,  whose  body  seemed 
a  lamp  of  finest  clay,  whose  service  was  to  feed  with  magic  oils, 
rare  and  fragrant,  that  wavering  fire  which  hovered  over  it. 
You,  who  are  an  adept  in  such  matters,  would  have  detected 
in  the  eyes  that  artist-look  which  seems  to  see  pictures  ever  in 
the  air,  and  which,  if  it  fall  on  you,  makes  you  feel  as  if  all 
the  world  were  a  gallery,  and  yourself  the  rather  indifferent 
portrait  of  a  gentleman  hung  therein.  As  the  stranger  brushes 
by  you  in  alighting,  you  detect  a  single  incongruity — a  smell 


400 


LOWELL 


of  dead  tobacco-smoke.    You  ask  his  name,  and  the  answer  is, 
"  Mr.  Allston." 

"  Mr.  Allston !  "  and  you  resolve  to  note  down  at  once  in 
your  diary  every  look,  every  gesture,  every  word  of  the  great 
painter  ?  ^  Not  in  the  least.  You  have  the  true  Anglo-Norman 
indifference,  and  most  likely  never  think  of  him  again  till  you 
hear  that  one  of  his  pictures  has  sold  for  a  great  price,  and  then 
contrive  to  let  your  grandchildren  know  twice  a  week  that  you 
met  him  once  in  a  coach,  and  that  he  said,  *'  Excuse  me,  sir,"  in 
a  very  Titianesque  manner,  when  he  stumbled  over  your  toes  in 
getting  out.  Hitherto  Boswell  is  quite  as  unique  as  Shake- 
speare. The  country  gentleman,  journeying  up  to  London,  in- 
quires of  Mistress  Davenant  at  the  Oxford  inn  the  name  of  his 
pleasant  companion  of  the  night  before.  "  Master  Shakespeare, 
an  *t  please  your  worship."  And  the  justice,  not  without  a 
sense  of  the  unbending,  says,  "  Truly,  a  merry  and  conceited 
gentleman ! "  It  is  lucky  for  the  peace  of  great  men  that  the 
world  seldom  finds  out  contemporaneously  who  its  great  men 
are,  or,  perhaps,  that  each  man  esteems  the  fortunate  he  who 
shall  draw  the  lot  of  memory  from  the  helmet  of  the  future. 
Had  the  eyes  of  some  Stratford  burgess  been  achromatic  tele- 
scopes, capable  of  a  perspective  of  two  hundred  years!  But, 
even  then,  would  not  his  record  have  been  fuller  of  say  Vs 
than  of  says  he's?  Nevertheless,  it  is  curious  to  consider  from 
what  infinitely  varied  points  of  view  we  might  form  our  esti- 
mate of  a  great  man's  character,  when  we  remember  that  he 
had  his  points  of  contact  with  the  butcher,  the  baker,  and  the 
candlestick-maker,  as  well  as  with  the  ingenious  A,  the  sublime 
B,  and  the  Right  Honorable  C.  If  it  be  true  that  no  man  ever 
clean  forgets  everything,  and  that  the  act  of  drowning  (as  is 
asserted)  forthwith  brightens  up  all  those  o'er-rusted  impres- 
sions, would  it  not  be  a  curious  experiment,  if,  after  a  remark- 
able person's  death,  the  public,  eager  for  minutest  particulars, 
should  gather  together  all  who  had  ever  been  brought  into  rela- 
tions with  him,  and,  submerging  them  to  the  hair's-breadth 
hitherward  of  the  drowning-point,  subject  them  to  strict  cross- 
examination  by  the  Humane  Society,  as  soon  as  they  become 

»  [This  refers  to  Washington  Allston,  He  studied  abroad  at  the  Royal  Acad- 

one  of  the  greatest  of  American  paint-  emy    and    in    Rome,    and    his    work    ac- 

ers.    He  was  born  in  South  Carolina  in  quired    a    world-wide    reputation. — Ed- 

1779,   and   died   at   Cambridge   in    1843.  itor.] 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY   YEARS   AGO  401 

conscious  between  the  resuscitating  blankets  ?  All  of  us  prob- 
ably have  brushed  against  destiny  in  the  street,  have  shaken 
hands  with  it,  fallen  asleep  with  it  in  railway  carriages,  and 
knocked  heads  with  it  in  some  one  or  other  of  its  yet  unrecog- 
nized incarnations. 

Will  it  seem  like  presenting  a  tract  to  a  colporteur,  my  dear 
Storg,  if  I  say  a  word  or  two  about  an  artist  to  you  over  there 
in  Italy  ?    Be  patient,  and  leave  your  button  in  my  grasp  yet  a 

little  longer.    A ,  a  person  whose  opinion  is  worth  having, 

once  said  to  me,  that,  however  one's  opinions  might  be  modified 
by  going  to  Europe,  one  always  came  back  with  a  higher  esteem 
for  Allston.  Certainly  he  is  thus  far  the  greatest  English  painter 
of  historical  subjects.  And  only  consider  how  strong  must  have 
been  the  artistic  bias  in  him  to  have  made  him  a  painter  at  all 
under  the  circumstances.  There  were  no  traditions  of  art,  so 
necessary  for  guidance  and  inspiration.  Blackburn,  Smibert, 
Copley,  Trumbull,  Stuart — it  was,  after  all,  but  a  Brentford 
sceptre  which  their  heirs  could  aspire  to,  and  theirs  were  not 
names  to  conjure  with,  like  those  through  which  Fame,  as 
through  a  silver  trumpet,  had  blown  for  three  centuries.  Cop- 
ley and  Stuart  were  both  remarkable  men,  but  the  one  painted 
like  an  inspired  silk-mercer,  and  the  other  seems  to  have  mixed 
his  colors  with  the  claret  of  which  he  and  his  generation  were 
so  fond.  And  what  could  a  successful  artist  hope  for  at  that 
time,  beyond  the  mere  wages  of  his  work  ?  His  pictures  would 
hang  in  cramped  back-parlors,  between  deadly  cross-fires  of 
lights,  sure  of  the  garret  or  the  auction-room  erelong,  in  a 
country  where  the  nomad  population  carry  no  household  gods 
with  them  but  their  five  wits  and  their  ten  fingers.  As  a  race, 
we  care  nothing  about  art,  but  the  Puritan  and  the  Quaker  are 
the  only  Anglo-Saxons  who  have  had  pluck  enough  to  confess 
it.  If  it  were  surprising  that  Allston  should  have  become  a 
painter  at  all,  how  almost  miraculous  that  he  should  have  been 
a  great  and  original  one!  We  call  him  original  deliberately, 
because,  though  his  school  is  essentially  Italian,  it  is  of  less 
consequence  where  a  man  buys  his  tools,  than  what  use  he  makes 
of  them.  Enough  English  artists  went  to  Italy  and  came  back 
painting  history  in  a  very  Anglo-Saxon  manner,  and  creating 
a  school  as  melodramatic  as  the  French,  without  its  perfection  in 
technicalities.  But  Allston  carried  thither  a  nature  open  on 
26 


402  LOWELL 

the  southern  side,  and  brought  it  back  so  steeped  in  rich  Italian 
sunshine  that  the  east  winds  (whether  physical  or  intellectual) 
of  Boston  and  the  dusts  of  Cambridgeport  assailed  it  in  vain. 
To  that  bare  wooden  studio  one  might  go  to  breathe  Venetian 
air,  and,  better  yet,  the  very  spirit  wherein  the  elder  brothers  of 
art  labored,  etherealized  by  metaphysical  speculation,  and  sub- 
limed by  religious  fervor.  The  beautiful  old  man !  Here  was 
genius  with  no  volcanic  explosions  (the  mechanic  result  of  vul- 
gar gunpowder  often),  but  lovely  as  a  Lapland  night ;  here  was 
fame,  not  sought  after  nor  worn  in  any  cheap  French  fashion 
as  a  ribbon  at  the  button-hole,  but  so  gentle,  so  retiring,  that  it 
seemed  no  more  than  an  assured  and  emboldened  modesty ;  here 
was  ambition,  undebased  by  rivalry  and  incapable  of  the  down- 
ward look ;  and  all  these  massed  and  harmonized  together  into 
a  purity  and  depth  of  character,  into  a  tone,  which  made  the 
daily  life  of  the  man  the  greatest  masterpiece  of  the  artist. 

But  let  us  go  to  the  Old  Town.  Thirty  years  since  the  muster 
and  the  Cornwallis  allowed  some  vent  to  those  natural  instincts 
which  Puritanism  scotched,  but  not  killed.  The  Cornwallis  had 
entered  upon  the  estates  of  the  old  Guy  Fawkes  procession,  con- 
fiscated by  the  Revolution.  It  was  a  masquerade,  in  which  that 
grave  and  suppressed  humor,  of  which  the  Yankees  are  fuller 
than  other  people,  burst  through  all  restraints,  and  disported 
itself  in  all  the  wildest  vagaries  of  fun.  It  is  a  curious  com- 
mentary on  the  artificiality  of  our  lives,  that  men  must  be  dis- 
guised and  masked  before  they  will  venture  into  the  obscurer 
corners  of  their  individuality,  and  display  the  true  features  of 
their  nature.  One  remarked  it  in  the  carnival,  and  one  especially 
noted  it  here  among  a  race  naturally  self-restrained ;  for  Silas, 
and  Ezra,  and  Jonas  were  not  only  disguised  as  Redcoats,  Con- 
tinentals, and  Indians,  but  not  unfrequently  disguised  in  drink 
also.  It  is  a  question  whether  the  lyceum,  where  the  public  is 
obliged  to  comprehend  all  vagrom  men,  supplies  the  place  of  the 
old  popular  amusements.  A  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  Cot- 
ton Mather  bewails  the  carnal  attractions  of  the  tavern  and  the 
training  field,  and  tells  of  an  old  Indian  who  imperfectly  under- 
stood the  English  tongue,  but  desperately  mastered  enough  of 
it  (when  under  sentence  of  death)  to  express  a  desire  for  instant 
hemp  rather  than  listen  to  any  more  ghostly  consolations.  Puri- 
tanism— I  am  perfectly  aware  how  great  a  debt  we  owe  it — ^tried 


CAMBRIDGE   THIRTY   YEARS   AGO  403 

over  again  the  old  experiment  of  driving  out  nature  with  a 
pitchfork,  and  had  the  usual  success.  It  was  like  a  ship  in- 
wardly on  fire,  whose  hatches  must  be  kept  hermetically  bat- 
tened down,  for  the  admittance  of  an  ounce  of  Heaven's  own 
natural  air  would  explode  it  utterly.  Morals  can  never  be  safely 
embodied  in  the  constable.  Polished,  cultivated,  fascinating 
Mephistopheles !  it  is  for  the  ungovernable  breakings-away  of 
the  soul  from  unnatural  compression  that  thou  waitest  with  a 
patient  smile.  Then  it  is  that  thou  offerest  thy  gentlemanly 
arm  to  unguarded  youth  for  a  pleasant  stroll  through  the  city 
of  destruction,  and,  as  a  special  favor,  introducest  him  to  the 
bewitching  Miss  Circe,  and  to  that  model  of  the  hospitable  old 
English  gentleman,  Mr.  Comus. 

But  the  muster  and  the  Cornwallis  were  not  peculiar  to  Cam- 
bridge. Commencement  day  was.  Saint  Pedagogus  was  a 
worthy  whose  feast  could  be  celebrated  by  men  who  quarrelled 
with  minced  pies,  and  blasphemed  custard  through  the  nose. 
The  holiday  preserved  all  the  features  of  an  English  fair.  Sta- 
tions were  marked  out  beforehand  by  the  town  constables,  and 
distinguished  by  numbered  stakes.  These  were  assigned  to 
the  different  vendors  of  small  wares,  and  exhibitors  of  rarities, 
whose  canvas  booths,  beginning  at  the  market-place,  sometimes 
half  encircled  the  Common  with  their  jovial  embrace.  Now  all 
the  Jehoiada-boxes  in  town  were  forced  to  give  up  their  rattling 
deposits  of  specie,  if  not  through  the  legitimate  orifice,  then  to 
the  brute  force  of  the  hammer.  For  hither  were  come  all  the 
wonders  of  the  world,  making  the  Arabian  Nights  seem  pos- 
sible, and  which  we  beheld  for  half  price,  not  without  mingled 
emotions — pleasure  at  the  economy,  and  shame  at  not  paying 
the  more  manly  fee.  Here  the  mummy  unveiled  her  withered 
charms — a  more  marvellous  Ninon,  still  attractive  in  her  three 
thousandth  year.  Here  were  the  Siamese  twins ;  ah  !  if  all  such 
enforced  and  unnatural  unions  were  made  a  show  of!  Here 
were  the  flying  horses  (their  supernatural  eflfect  injured — like 
that  of  some  poems — by  the  visibility  of  the  man  who  turned 
the  crank),  on  which,  as  we  tilted  at  the  ring,  we  felt  our  shoul- 
ders tingle  with  the  accolade,  and  heard  the  clink  of  golden 
spurs  at  our  heels.  Are  the  realities  of  life  ever  worth  half  so 
much  as  its  cheats?  And  are  there  any  feasts  half  so  filling 
at  the  price  as  those  Barmecide  ones  spread  for  us  by  imagina- 


404  LOWELL 

tion?  Hither  came  the  Canadian  giant,  surreptitiously  seen, 
without  price,  as  he  alighted,  in  broad  day  (giants  were  always 
foolish),  at  the  tavern.  Hither  came  the  great  horse  Columbus, 
with  shoes  two  inches  thick,  and  more  wisely  introduced  by 
night.  In  the  trough  of  the  town-pump  might  be  seen  the  mer- 
maid, its  poor  monkey's  head  carefully  sustained  above  water, 
for  fear  of  drowning.  There  were  dwarfs,  also,  who  danced  and 
sang,  and  many  a  proprietor  regretted  the  transaudient  prop- 
erties of  canvas,  which  allowed  the  frugal  public  to  share  in 

the  melody  without  entering  the  booth.    Is  it  a  slander  of  H , 

who  reports  that  he  once  saw  a  deacon,  eminent  for  psalmody, 
lingering  near  one  of  those  vocal  tents,  and,  with  an  assumed 
air  of  abstraction,  furtively  drinking  in,  with  unhabitual  ears, 
a  song,  not  secular  merely,  but  with  a  dash  of  libertinism !  The 
New  England  proverb  says,  "  All  deacons  are  good,  but — 
there^s  a  difference  in  deacons."  On  these  days  Snow  became 
super-terranean,  and  had  a  stand  in  the  square,  and  Lewis  tem- 
perately contended  with  the  stronger  fascinations  of  egg-pop. 
But  space  would  fail  me  to  make  a  catalogue  of  everything.  No 
doubt.  Wisdom  also,  as  usual,  had  her  quiet  booth  at  the  corner 
of  some  street,  without  entrance- fee,  and,  even  at  that  rate,  got 
never  a  customer  the  whole  day  long.  For  the  bankrupt  after- 
noon there  were  peep-shows,  at  a  cent  each. 

But  all  these  shows  and  their  showers  are  as  clean  gone  now 
as  those  of  Caesar  and  Timour  and  Napoleon,  for  which  the 
world  paid  dearer.  They  are  utterly  gone  out,  not  leaving  so 
much  as  a  snuff  behind — as  little  thought  of  now  as  that  John 
Robins,  who  was  once  so  considerable  a  phenomenon  as  to  be 
esteemed  the  last  great  Antichrist  and  son  of  perdition  by  the 
entire  sect  of  Muggletonians.  Were  commencement  what  it 
used  to  be,  I  should  be  tempted  to  take  a  booth  myself,  and  try 
an  experiment  recommended  by  a  satirist  of  some  merit,  whose 
works  were  long  ago  dead  and  (I  fear)  deedeed  to  boot : 

"  Menenius,  thou  who  fain  wouldst  know  how  calmly  men  can  pass 
Those  biting  portraits  of  themselves,  disguised  as  fox  or  ass, 
Go  borrow  coin  enough  to  buy  a  full-length  psyche-glass, 
Engage  a  rather  darkish  room  in  some  well-sought  position, 
And  let  the  town  break  out  with  bills,  so  much  per  head  admission, 
Great  natural  curiosity!     The  biggest  living  fool! 
Arrange  your  mirror  cleverly,  before  it  set  a  stool, 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY    YEARS   AGO  405 

Admit  the  public  one  by  one,  place  each  upon  the  seat, 

Draw  up  the  curtain,  let  him  look  his  fill,  and  then  retreat : 

Smith  mounts  and  takes  a  thorough  view,  then  comes  serenely  down, 

Goes  home  and  tells  his  wife  the  thing  is  curiously  like  Brown ; 

Brown  goes  and  stares,  and  tells  his  wife  the  wonder's  core  and  pith 

Is  that  'tis  just  the  counterpart  of  that  conceited  Smith. 

Life  calls  us  all  to  such  a  show :  Menenius,  trust  in  me. 

While  thou  to  see  thy  neighbor  smil'st,  he  does  the  same  for  thee." 


My  dear  Storg,  would  you  come  to  my  show,  and,  instead  of 
looking  in  my  glass,  insist  on  taking  your  money's  worth  in 
staring  at  the  exhibitor  ? 

Not  least  among  the  curiosities  which  the  day  brought  to- 
gether were  some  of  the  graduates,  posthumous  men,  as  it 
were,  disentombed  from  country  parishes  and  district  schools, 
but  perennial  also,  in  whom  freshly  survived  all  the  college 
jokes,  and  who  had  no  intelligence  later  than  their  senior  year. 
These  had  gathered  to  eat  the  college  dinner,  and  to  get  the 
triennial  catalogue  (their  libro  d'oro),  referred  to  oftener  than 
any  volume  but  the  Concordance.  Aspiring  men  they  were  cer- 
tainly, but  in  a  right  unworldly  way;  this  scholastic  festival 
opening  a  peaceful  path  to  the  ambition  which  might  else  have 
devastated  mankind  with  prolusions  on  the  Pentateuch,  or 
genealogies  of  the  dormouse  family.  For  since  in  the  academic 
processions  the  classes  are  ranked  in  the  order  of  their  gradua- 
tion, and  he  has  the  best  chance  at  the  dinner  who  has  the  few- 
est teeth  to  eat  it  with,  so,  by  degrees,  there  springs  up  a  com- 
petition in  longevity,  the  prize  contended  for  being  the  oldest 
surviving  graduateship.  This  is  an  office,  it  is  true,  without 
emolument,  but  having  certain  advantages,  nevertheless.  The 
incumbent,  if  he  come  to  commencement,  is  a  prodigious  lion, 
and  commonly  gets  a  paragraph  in  the  newspapers  once  a  year 
with  the  (fiftieth)  last  survivor  of  Washington's  life  guard.  If 
a  clergyman,  he  is  expected  to  ask  a  blessing  and  return  thanks 
at  the  dinner,  a  function  which  he  performs  with  centenarian 
longanimity,  as  if  he  reckoned  the  ordinary  life  of  man  to  be 
fivescore  years,  and  that  a  grace  must  be  long  to  reach  so  far 
away  as  heaven.  Accordingly,  this  silent  race  is  watched,  on 
the  course  of  the  catalogue,  with  an  interest  worthy  of  New- 
market ;  and  as  star  after  star  rises  in  the  galaxy  of  death,  till 
one  name  is  left  alone,  an  oasis  of  life  in  the  stellar  desert,  it 


4o6  LOWELL 

grows  solemn.  The  natural  feeling  is  reversed,  and  it  is  the  soli- 
tary life  that  becomes  sad  and  monitory,  the  Stylites  there  on  the 
lonely  top  of  his  century-pillar,  who  has  heard  the  passing-bell 
of  youth,  love,  friendship,  hope — of  everything  but  immitigable 
eld. 

Dr.  K was  president  of  the  university  then,  a  man  of 

genius,  but  of  genius  that  evaded  utilization,  a  great  water- 
power,  but  without  rapids,  and  flowing  with  too  smooth  and 
gentle  a  current  to  be  set  turning  wheels  and  whirling  spin- 
dles. His  was  not  that  restless  genius,  of  which  the  man  seems 
to  be  merely  the  representative,  and  which  wreaks  itself  in  litera- 
ture or  politics,  but  of  that  milder  sort,  quite  as  genuine,  and 
perhaps  of  more  contemporaneous  value,  which  is  the  man,  per- 
meating the  whole  life  with  placid  force,  and  giving  to  word, 
look,  and  gesture  a  meaning  only  justifiable  by  our  belief  in  a 
reserved  power  of  latent  reinforcement.  The  man  of  talents 
possesses  them  like  so  many  tools,  does  his  job  with  them,  and 
there  an  end ;  but  the  man  of  genius  is  possessed  by  it,  and  it 
makes  him  into  a  book  or  a  life  according  to  its  whim.  Talent 
takes  the  existing  moulds,  and  makes  its  castings,  better  or 
worse,  of  richer  or  baser  metal,  according  to  knack  and  oppor- 
tunity; but  genius  is  always  shaping  new  ones,  and  runs  the 
man  in  them,  so  that  there  is  always  that  human  feel  in  its 
results  which  gives  us  a  kindred  thrill.  What  it  will  make  we 
can  only  conjecture,  contented  always  with  knowing  the  infinite 
balance  of  possibility  against  which  it  can  draw  at  pleasure. 
Have  you  ever  seen  a  man  whose  check  would  be  honored  for  a 
million  pay  his  toll  of  one  cent  ?  and  has  not  that  bit  of  copper, 
no  bigger  than  your  own,  and  piled  with  it  by  the  careless  toll- 
man, given  you  a  tingling  vision  of  what  golden  bridges  he  could 
pass — into  what  Elysian  regions  of  taste  and  enjoyment  and 
culture,  barred  to  the  rest  of  us  ?  Something  like  it  is  the  im- 
pression made  by  such  characters  as  K 's  on  those  who  come 

in  contact  with  them. 

There  was  that  in  the  soft  and  rounded  (I  had  almost  said 
melting)  outlines  of  his  face  which  reminded  one  of  Chaucer. 
The  head  had  a  placid  yet  dignified  droop  like  his.  He  was  an 
anachronism,  fitter  to  have  been  abbot  of  fountains  or  Bishop 
Golias,  courtier  and  priest,  humorist  and  lord  spiritual,  all 
in  one,  than  for  the  mastership  of  a  provincial  college  which 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY   YEARS   AGO  407 

combined,  with  its  purely  scholastic  functions,  those  of  account- 
ant and  chief  of  police.  For  keeping  books  he  was  incom- 
petent (unless  it  were  those  he  borrowed),  and  the  only  dis- 
cipline he  exercised  was  by  the  unobtrusive  pressure  of  a 
gentlemanliness  which  rendered  insubordination  to  him  impos- 
sible. But  the  world  always  judges  a  man  (and  rightly  enough, 
too)  by  his  little  faults,  which  he  shows  a  hundred  times  a  day, 
rather  than  by  his  great  virtues  which  he  discloses  perhaps  but 
once  in  a  lifetime,  and  to  a  single  person — nay,  in  proportion 
as  they  are  rarer,  and  he  is  nobler,  is  shyer  of  letting  their  ex- 
istence be  known  at  all.  He  was  one  of  those  misplaced  per- 
sons whose  misfortune  it  is  that  their  lives  overlap  two  distinct 
eras,  and  are  already  so  impregnated  with  one  that  they  can 
never  be  in  healthy  sympathy  with  the  other.  Born  when  the 
New  England  clergy  were  still  an  establishment  and  an  aris- 
tocracy, and  when  office  was  almost  always  for  life,  and  often 
hereditary,  he  lived  to  be  thrown  upon  a  time  when  avocations 
of  all  colors  might  be  shuffled  together  in  the  life  of  one  man, 
like  a  pack  of  cards,  so  that  you  could  not  prophesy  that  he  who 
was  ordained  to-day  might  not  accept  a  colonelcy  of  filibusters 
to-morrow.  Such  temperaments  as  his  attach  themselves,  like 
barnacles,  to  what  seems  permanent,  but  presently  the  good  ship 
Progress  weighs  anchor,  and  whirls  them  away  from  drowsy 
tropic  inlets  to  arctic  waters  of  unnatural  ice.  To  such  crusta- 
ceous  natures,  created  to  cling  upon  the  immemorial  rock  amid 
softest  mosses,  comes  the  bustling  nineteenth  century  and  says, 
"  Come,  come,  bestir  yourself  to  be  practical :  get  out  of  that 
old  shell  of  yours  forthwith !  "  Alas,  to  get  out  of  the  shell  is 
to  die ! 

One  of  the  old  travellers  in  South  America  tells  of  fishes  that 
built  their  nests  in  trees  (piscium  et  summa  hcesit  genus  ulmo), 
and  gives  a  print  of  the  mother  fish  upon  her  nest,  while  her  mate 
mounts  perpendicularly  to  her  without  aid  of  legs  or  wings. 
Life  shows  plenty  of  such  incongruities  between  a  man's  place 
and  his  nature  (not  so  easily  got  over  as  by  the  traveller's 

undoubting  engraver) ,  and  one  cannot  help  fancying  that  K 

was  an  instance  In  point.  He  never  encountered,  one  would  say, 
the  attraction  proper  to  draw  out  his  native  force.  Certainly, 
few  men  who  impressed  others  so  strongly,  and  of  whom  so 
many  good  things  are  remembered,  left  less  behind  them  to 


4o8  LOWELL 

justify  contemporary  estimates.  He  printed  nothing,  and  was, 
perhaps,  one  of  those  the  electric  sparkles  of  whose  brains,  dis- 
charged naturally  and  healthily  in  conversation,  refuse  to  pass 
through  the  non-conducting  medium  of  the  inkstand.  His  ana 
would  make  a  delightful  collection.  One  or  two  of  his  official 
ones  will  be  in  place  here.  Hearing  that  Porter's  flip  (which 
was  exemplary)  had  too  great  an  attraction  for  the  collegians, 
he  resolved  to  investigate  the  matter  himself.  Accordingly, 
entering  the  old  inn  one  day,  he  called  for  a  mug  of  it,  and, 
having  drunk  it,  said,  "  And  so,  Mr.  Porter,  the  young  gen- 
tlemen come  to  drink  your  flip,  do  they  ?  "  "  Yes,  sir — some- 
times." "  Ah,  well,  I  should  think  they  would.  Good  day,  Mr. 
Porter,"  and  departed,  saying  nothing  more;  for  he  always 
wisely  allowed  for  the  existence  of  a  certain  amount  of  human 
nature  in  ingenuous  youth.  At  another  time  the  "  Harvard 
Washington  "  asked  leave  to  go  into  Boston  to  a  collation  which 
had  been  offered  them.  "  Certainly,  young  gentlemen,"  said 
the  president,  "  but  have  you  engaged  anyone  to  bring  home 
your  muskets  ?  " — the  college  being  responsible  for  these  weap- 
ons, which  belonged  to  the  State.    Again,  when  a  student  came 

with  a  physician's  certificate,  and  asked  leave  of  absence,  K 

granted  it  at  once  and  then  added,  "  By  the  way,  Mr. ,  per- 
sons interested  in  the  relation  which  exists  between  states  of 
the  atmosphere  and  health,  have  noticed  a  curious  fact  in  regard 
to  the  climate  of  Cambridge,  especially  within  the  college  limits 
— the  very  small  number  of  deaths  in  proportion  to  the  cases 

of  dangerous  illness."    This  is  told  of  Judge  W ,  himself  a 

wit,  and  capable  of  enjoying  the  humorous  delicacy  of  the  re- 
proof. 

Shall  I  take  Brahmin  Alcott's  favorite  word  and  call  him  a 
daemonic  man?  No,  the  Latin  genius  is  quite  old-fashioned 
enough  for  me,  means  the  same  thing,  and  its  derivative  genial- 
ity expresses,  moreover,  the  base  of  K 's  being.  How  he  sug- 
gested cloistered  repose,  and  quadrangles  mossy  with  centurial 
associations!  How  easy  he  was,  and  how  without  creak  was 
every  movement  of  his  mind !  This  life  was  good  enough  for 
him,  and  the  next  not  too  good.  The  gentleman-like  pervaded 
even  his  prayers.  His  were  not  the  manners  of  a  man  of  the 
world,  nor  of  a  man  of  the  other  world  either ;  but  both  met 
in  him  to  balance  each  other  in  a  beautiful  equilibrium.    Pray- 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY   YEARS   AGO  409 

ing,  he  leaned  forward  upon  the  pulpit-cushion  as  for  conversa- 
tion, and  seemed  to  feel  himself  (without  irreverence)  on 
terms  of  friendly  but  courteous  familiarity  with  Heaven.  The 
expression  of  his  face  was  that  of  tranquil  contentment,  and  he 
appeared  less  to  be  supplicating  expected  mercies  than  thank- 
ful for  those  already  found,  as  if  he  were  saying  the  gratias  in 
the  refectory  of  the  Abbey  of  Theleme.  Under  him  flourished 
the  Harvard  Washington  Corps,  whose  gyrating  banner,  in- 
scribed Tam  Marti  quam  Mer curio  (atqui  magis  LycEO  should 
have  been  added),  on  the  evening  of  training-days,  was  an  ac- 
curate dynamometer  of  Willard's  punch  or  Porter's  flip.  It 
was  they  who,  after  being  royally  entertained  by  a  maiden  lady 
of  the  town,  entered  in  their  orderly  book  a  vote  that  Miss  Blank 
was  a  gentleman.  I  see  them  now,  returning  from  the  immi- 
nent deadly  breach  of  the  law  of  Rechab,  unable  to  form  other 
than  the  serpentine  line  of  beauty,  while  their  officers,  brotherly 
rather  than  imperious,  instead  of  reprimanding,  tearfully  em- 
braced the  more  eccentric  wanderers  from  military  precision. 
Under  him  the  Med.  Facs.  took  their  equal  place  among  the 
learned  societies  of  Europe,  numbering  among  their  grateful 
honorary  members  Alexander,  Emperor  of  all  the  Russias,  who 
(if  college  legends  may  be  trusted)  sent  them  in  return  for  their 
diploma  a  gift  of  medals  confiscated  by  the  authorities.  Under 
him  the  college  fire-engine  was  vigilant  and  active  in  suppress- 
ing any  tendency  to  spontaneous  combustion  among  the  fresh- 
men, or  rushed  wildly  to  imaginary  conflagrations,  generally  in 
a  direction  where  punch  was  to  be  had.  All  these  useful  con- 
ductors for  the  natural  electricity  of  youth,  dispersing  it  or 
turning  it  harmlessly  into  the  earth,  are  taken  away  now — • 
wisely  or  not,  is  questionable. 

An  academic  town,  in  whose  atmosphere  there  is  always 
something  antiseptic,  seems  naturally  to  draw  to  itself  certain 
varieties  and  to  preserve  certain  humors  (in  the  Ben  Jonsonian 
sense)  of  character — men  who  come  not  to  study  so  much  as  to 
be  studied.  At  the  headquarters  of  Washington  once,  and  now 
of  the  muses,  lived  C ,  but  before  the  date  of  these  recollec- 
tions. Here  for  seven  years  (as  the  law  was  then)  he  made  his 
house  his  castle,  sunning  himself  in  his  elbow-chair  at  the  front- 
door,  on  that  seventh  day,  secure  from  every  arrest  but  that 
of  death's.    Here  long  survived  him  his  turbaned  widow^  sta- 


4IO  LOWELL 

dious  only  of  Spinoza,  and  refusing  to  molest  the  canker-worms 
that  annually  disleaved  her  elms,  because  we  were  all  vermicular 
alike.  She  had  been  a  famous  beauty  once,  but  the  canker  years 
had  left  her  leafless,  too,  and  I  used  to  wonder,  as  I  saw  her 
sitting  always  alone  at  her  accustomed  window,  whether  she 
were  ever  visited  by  the  reproachful  shade  of  him  who  (in  spite 
of  Rosalind)  died  broken-hearted  for  her  in  her  radiant  youth. 
And  this  reminds  me  of  F ,  who,  also  crossed  in  love,  al- 
lowed no  mortal  eye  to  behold  his  face  for  many  years.  The 
eremitic  instinct  is  not  peculiar  to  the  Thebais,  as  many  a  New 
England  village  can  testify,  and  it  is  worthy  of  consideration 
that  the  Romish  Church  has  not  forgotten  this  among  her  other 

points  of  intimate  contact  with  human  nature.    F became 

purely  vespertinal,  never  stirring  abroad  till  after  dark.  He 
occupied  two  rooms,  migrating  from  one  to  the  other,  as  the 
necessities  of  housewifery  demanded,  and  when  it  was  requisite 
that  he  should  put  his  signature  to  any  legal  instrument  (for 
he  was  an  anchorite  of  ample  means),  he  wrapped  himself  in  a 
blanket,  allowing  nothing  to  be  seen  but  the  hand  which  acted 
as  scribe.  What  impressed  us  boys  more  than  anything  was 
the  rumor  that  he  had  suffered  his  beard  to  grow,  such  an  anti- 
Sheffieldism  being  almost  unheard  of  in  those  days,  and  the 
peculiar  ornament  of  man  being  associated  in  our  minds  with 
nothing  more  recent  than  the  patriarchs  and  apostles,  whose 
effigies  we  were  obliged  to  solace  ourselves  with  weekly  in  the 
family  Bible.  He  came  out  of  his  oysterhood  at  last,  and  I 
knew  him  well,  a  kind-hearted  man,  who  gave  annual  sleigh- 
rides  to  the  town-paupers,  and  supplied  the  poorer  children  with 
school-books.  His  favorite  topic  of  conversation  was  eternity, 
and,  like  many  other  worthy  persons,  he  used  to  fancy  that 
meaning  was  an  affair  of  aggregation,  and  that  he  doubled  the 
intensity  of  what  he  said  by  the  sole  aid  of  the  multiplication- 
table.  '*  Eternity !  "  he  used  to  say,  "  it  is  not  a  day ;  it  is  not  a 
year ;  it  is  not  a  hundred  years ;  it  is  not  a  thousand  years ;  it 
is  not  a  million  years ;  no,  sir  "  (the  sir  being  thrown  in  to 
recall  wandering  attention),  "  it  is  not  ten  million  years !  "  and 
so  on,  his  enthusiasm  becoming  a  mere  frenzy  when  he  got 
among  his  sextillions,  till  I  sometimes  wished  he  had  con- 
tinued in  retirement.  He  used  to  sit  at  the  open  window 
during  thunder-storms,  and  had  a  Grecian  feeling  about  death 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY  YEARS   AGO  411 

by  lightning.  In  a  certain  sense  he  had  his  desire,  for  he  died 
suddenly — not  by  fire  from  heaven,  but  by  the  red  flash  of 
apoplexy,  leaving  his  whole  estate  to  charitable  uses. 

If  K were  out  of  place  as  president,  that  was  not  P 

as  Greek  professor.  Who  that  ever  saw  him  can  forget  him, 
in  his  old  age,  like  a  lusty  winter,  frosty  but  kindly,  with  great 
silver  spectacles  of  the  heroic  period,  such  as  scarce  twelve 
noses  of  these  degenerate  days  could  bear?  He  was  a  natural 
celibate,  not  dwelling  "  like  the  fly  in  the  heart  of  the  apple,"  but 
like  a  lonely  bee,  rather,  absconding  himself  in  Hymettian 
flowers,  incapable  of  matrimony  as  a  solitary  palm-tree.  There 
was  not  even  a  tradition  of  youthful  disappointment.  I  fancy 
him  arranging  his  scrupulous  toilet,  not  for  Amaryllis  or  Nesera, 
but,  like  Machiavelli,  for  the  society  of  his  beloved  classics.  His 
ears  had  needed  no  prophylactic  wax  to  pass  the  Sirens'  isle, 
nay,  he  would  have  kept  them  the  wider  open,  studious  of  the 
dialect  in  which  they  sang,  and  perhaps  triumphantly  detecting 
the  ^olic  digamma  in  their  lay.  A  thoroughly  single  man, 
single-minded,  single-hearted,  buttoning  over  his  single  heart 
a  single-breasted  surtout,  and  wearing  always  a  hat  of  a  single 
fashion — did  he  in  secret  regard  the  dual  number  of  his  favorite 
language  as  a  weakness?  The  son  of  an  officer  of  distinction 
in  the  Revolutionary  War,  he  mounted  the  pulpit  with  the  erect 
port  of  soldier,  and  carried  his  cane  more  in  the  fashion  of  a 
weapon  than  a  staff,  but  with  the  point  lowered  in  token  of  sur- 
render to  the  peaceful  proprieties  of  his  calling.  Yet  sometimes 
the  martial  instincts  would  burst  the  cerements  of  black  coat 
and  clerical  neck-cloth,  as  once  when  the  students  had  got  into 
a  fight  upon  the  training-field,  and  the  licentious  soldiery,  furi- 
ous with  rum,  had  driven  them  at  point  of  bayonet  to  the  col- 
lege-gates, and  even  threatened  to  lift  their  arms  against  the 
muses'  bower.    Then,  like  Major  Goffe  at  Deerfield,  suddenly 

appeared  the  gray-haired  P ,  all  his  father  resurgent  in  him, 

and  shouted,  "  Now,  my  lads,  stand  your  ground,  you're  in  the 
right  now!  don't  let  one  of  them  get  inside  the  college 
grounds !  "  Thus  he  allowed  arms  to  get  the  better  of  the  toga, 
but  raised  it,  like  the  prophet's  breeches,  into  a  banner,  and  care- 
fully ushered  resistance  with  a  preamble  of  infringed  right. 
Fidelity  was  his  strong  characteristic,  and  burned  equably  in 
him  through  a  life  of  eighty-three  years.     He  drilled  himself 


412 


LOWELL 


till  inflexible  habit  stood  sentinel  before  all  those  postern-weak- 
nesses which  temperament  leaves  unbolted  to  temptation.  A 
lover  of  the  scholar's  herb,  yet  loving  freedom  more,  and  know- 
ing that  the  animal  appetites  ever  hold  one  hand  behind  them 
for  Satan  to  drop  a  bribe  in,  he  would  never  have  two  cigars  in 
his  house  at  once,  but  walked  every  day  to  the  shop  to  fetch  his 
single  diurnal  solace.  Nor  would  he  trust  himself  with  two  on 
Saturdays,  preferring  (since  he  could  not  violate  the  Sabbath 
even  by  that  infinitesimal  traffic)  to  depend  on  providential 
ravens,  which  were  seldom  wanting  in  the  shape  of  some  black- 
coated  friend  who  knew  his  need  and  honored  the  scruple  that 
occasioned  it.  He  was  faithful  also  to  his  old  hats,  in  which 
appeared  the  constant  service  of  the  antique  world,  and  which 
he  preserved  forever,  piled  like  a  black  pagoda  under  his  dress- 
ing-table. No  scarecrow  was  ever  the  residuary  legatee  of  his 
beavers,  though  one  of  them  in  any  of  the  neighboring  peach- 
orchards  would  have  been  sovran  against  an  attack  of  freshmen. 
He  wore  them  all  in  turn,  getting  through  all  in  the  course  of 
the  year,  like  the  sun  through  the  signs  of  the  Zodiac,  modulat- 
ing them  according  to  seasons  and  celestial  phenomena,  so  that 
never  was  spider-web  or  chickweed  so  sensitive  a  weather- 
gage  as  they.  Nor  did  his  political  party  find  him  less  loyal. 
Taking  all  the  tickets,  he  would  seat  himself  apart  and  carefully 
compare  them  with  the  list  of  regular  nominations  as  printed  in 
his  "  Daily  Advertiser  "  before  he  dropped  his  ballot  in  the  box. 
In  less  ambitious  moments  it  almost  seems  to  me  that  I  would 

rather  have  had  that  slow,  conscientious  vote  of  P 's  alone 

than  have  been  chosen  alderman  of  the  ward ! 

If  you  had  walked  to  what  was  then  sweet  Auburn  by  the 
pleasant  Old  Road,  on  some  June  morning  thirty  years  ago,  you 
would,  very  likely,  have  met  two  other  characteristic  persons, 
both  phantasmagoric  now,  and  belonging  to  the  past.  Fifty  years 
earlier  the  scarlet-coated,  rapiered  figures  of  Vassall,  Oliver, 
and  Brattle,  creaked  up  and  down  there  on  red-heeled  shoes, 
lifting  the  ceremonious  three-cornered  hat  and  offering  the 
fugacious  hospitalities  of  the  snuff-box.  They  are  all  shadowy 
alike  now,  not  one  of  your  Etruscan  Lucumos  or  Roman  Con- 
suls more  so,  my  dear  Storg.    First  is  W ,  his  queue  slender 

and  tapering  like  the  tail  of  a  violet  crab,  held  out  horizontally 
by  the  high  collar  of  his  shepherd's-gray  overcoat,  whose  style 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY   YEARS   AGO  413 

was  of  the  latest  when  he  studied  at  Leyden  in  his  hot  youth. 
The  age  of  cheap  clothes  sees  no  more  of  those  faithful  old  gar- 
ments, as  proper  to  their  wearers  and  as  distinctive  as  the  barks 
of  trees,  and  by  long  use  interpenetrated  with  their  very  nature. 
Nor  do  we  see  so  many  humors  (still  in  the  old  sense)  now  that 
every  man's  soul  belongs  to  the  public,  as  when  social  distinc- 
tions were  more  marked,  and  men  felt  that  their  personalities 
were  their  castles,  in  which  they  could  entrench  themselves 
against  the  world.  Nowadays  men  are  shy  of  letting  their  true 
selves  be  seen,  as  if  in  some  former  life  they  had  committed  a 
crime,  and  were  all  the  time  afraid  of  discovery  and  arrest  in 
this.  Formerly  they  used  to  insist  on  your  giving  the  wall  to 
their  peculiarities,  and  you  may  still  find  examples  of  it  in 
the  parson  or  the  doctor  of  retired  villages.  One  of  W 's  od- 
dities was  touching.  A  little  brook  used  to  ruil  across  the  street, 
and  the  sidewalk  was  carried  over  it  by  a  broad  stone.  Of 
course,  there  is  no  brook  now.  What  use  did  that  little  glimpse 
of  ripple  serve,  where  the  children  used  to  launch  their  chip 

fleets  ?    W ,  in  going  over  this  stone,  which  gave  a  hollow 

resonance  to  the  tread,  used  to  strike  upon  it  three  times  with 
his  cane,  and  mutter  "  Tom !  Tom  !  Tom  !  "  I  used  to  think  he 
was  only  mimicking  with  his  voice  the  sound  of  the  blows,  and 
possibly  it  was  that  sound  which  suggested  his  thought — for 
he  was  remembering  a  favorite  nephew  prematurely  dead.  Per- 
haps Tom  had  sailed  his  boats  there ;  perhaps  the  reverberation 
under  the  old  man's  foot  hinted  at  the  hollowness  of  life ;  per- 
haps the  fleeting  eddies  of  the  water  brought  to  mind  the 

fugaces  annos,    W ,  like  P ,  wore  amazing  spectacles,  fit 

to  transmit  no  smaller  image  than  the  page  of  mightiest  folios 
of  Dioscorides  or  Hercules  de  Saxonia,  and  rising  full-disked 
upon  the  beholder  like  those  prodigies  of  two  moons  at  once, 
portending  change  to  monarchs.  The  great  collar  disallowing 
any  independent  rotation  of  the  head,  I  remember  he  used  to 
turn  his  whole  person  in  order  to  bring  their  foci  to  bear  upon 
an  object.  One  can  fancy  that  terrified  nature  would  have 
yielded  up  her  secrets  at  once,  without  cross-examination,  at 
their  first  glare.  Through  them  he  had  gazed  fondly  into  the 
great  mare's-nest  of  Junius,  publishing  his  observations  upon 
the  eggs  found  therein  in  a  tall  octavo.  It  was  he  who  intro- 
duced vaccination  to  this  Western  World.    He  used  to  stop 


414  LOWELL 

and  say  good-morning  kindly,  and  pat  the  shoulder  of  the  blush- 
ing school-boy  who  now,  with  the  fierce  snow-storm  wildering 
without,  sits  and  remembers  sadly  those  old  meetings  and  part- 
ings in  the  June  sunshine. 

Then,  there  was  S ,  whose  resounding  "  Haw !  haw !  haw ! 

by  George !  "  positively  enlarged  the  income  of  every  dweller  in 
Cambridge.  In  downright,  honest  good  cheer  and  good  neigh- 
borhood it  was  worth  five  hundred  a  year  to  every  one  of  us.  Its 
jovial  thunders  cleared  the  mental  air  of  every  sulky  cloud. 
Perpetual  childhood  dwelt  in  him,  the  childhood  of  his  native 
Southern  France,  and  its  fixed  aid  was  all  the  time  bubbling 
up  and  sparkling  and  winking  in  his  eyes.  It  seemed  as  if  his 
placid  old  face  were  only  a  mask  behind  which  a  merry  Cupid 
had  ambushed  himself,  peeping  out  all  the  while,  and  ready  to 
drop  it  when  the  play  grew  tiresome.  Every  word  he  uttered 
seemed  to  be  hilarious,  no  matter  what  the  occasion.  If  he  were 
sick  and  you  visited  him,  if  he  had  met  with  a  misfortune  (and 
there  are  few  men  so  wise  that  they  can  look  even  at  the  back  of 
a  retiring  sorrow  with  composure),  it  was  all  one;  his  great 
laugh  went  off  as  if  it  were  set  like  an  alarm-clock,  to  run  down, 
whether  he  would  or  no,  at  a  certain  nick.  Even  after  an  ordi- 
nary **  Good  morning! ''  (especially  if  to  an  old  pupil,  and  in 
French),  the  wonderful  "Haw!  haw!  haw!  by  George!" 
would  burst  upon  you  unexpectedly  like  a  salute  of  artillery  on 
some  holiday  which  you  had  forgotten.  Everything  was  a  joke 
to  him — that  the  oath  of  allegiance  had  been  administered  to 
him  by  your  grandfather — that  he  had  taught  Prescott  his  first 
Spanish  (of  which  he  was  proud) — no  matter  what.  Every- 
thing came  to  him  marked  by  nature — right  side  up,  with  care, 
and  he  kept  it  so.  The  world  to  him,  as  to  all  of  us,  was  like 
a  medal,  on  the  obverse  of  which  is  stamped  the  image  of  Joy, 

and  on  the  reverse  that  of  Care.    S never  took  the  foolish 

pains  to  look  at  that  other  side,  even  if  he  knew  its  existence ; 
much  less  would  it  have  occurred  to  him  to  turn  it  into  view 
and  insist  that  his  friends  should  look  at  it  with  him.  Nor 
was  this  a  mere  outside  good-humor ;  its  source  was  deeper  in 
a  true  Christian  kindliness  and  amenity.  Once  when  he  had 
been  knocked  down  by  a  tipsily-driven  sleigh,  and  was  urged 
to  prosecute  the  offenders — "  No,  no,"  he  said,  his  wounds  still 
fresh,  "  young  blood !  young  blood !   it  must  have  its  way ;   I 


CAMBRIDGE  THIRTY   YEARS   AGO  415 

was  young  myself."     Was!  few  men  come  into  life  so  young 

as  S went  out.    He  landed  in  Boston  (then  the  front  door  of 

America)  in  '93,  and,  in  honor  of  the  ceremony,  had  his  head 
powdered  afresh,  and  put  on  a  suit  of  court-mourning  before  he 
set  foot  on  the  wharf.  My  fancy  always  dressed  him  in  that 
violet  silk,  and  his  soul  certainly  wore  a  full  court-suit.  What 
was  there  ever  like  his  bow?  It  was  as  if  you  had  received 
a  decoration,  and  could  write  yourself  gentleman  from  that  day 
forth.  His  hat  rose,  regreeting  your  own,  and,  having  sailed 
through  the  stately  curve  of  the  old  regime,  sank  gently  back 
over  that  placid  brain  which  harbored  no  thought  less  white 
than  the  powder  which  covered  it.  I  have  sometimes  imagined 
that  there  was  a  graduated  arc  over  his  head,  invisible  to  other 
eyes  than  his,  by  which  he  meted  out  to  each  his  rightful  share 
of  castorial  consideration.  I  carry  in  my  memory  three  ex- 
emplary bows.  The  first  is  that  of  an  old  beggar,  who  already 
carrying  in  his  hand  a  white  hat,  the  gift  of  benevolence,  took 
ofif  the  black  one  from  his  head  also,  and  profoundly  saluted  me 
with  both  at  once,  giving  me,  in  return  for  my  alms,  a  dual 
benediction,  puzzling  as  a  nod  from  Janus  Bifrons.  The  second 
I  received  from  an  old  cardinal  who  was  taking  his  walk  just 
outside  the  Porta  San  Giovanni  at  Rome.  I  paid  him  the  cour- 
tesy due  to  his  age  and  rank.  Forthwith  rose — first,  the  hat; 
second,  the  hat  of  his  confessor ;  third,  that  of  another  priest 
who  attended  him ;  fourth,  the  fringed  cocked-hat  of  his  coach- 
man; fifth  and  sixth,  the  ditto,  ditto,  of  his  two  footmen. 
Here  was  an  investment,  indeed ;  six  hundred  per  cent,  inter- 
est on  a  single  bow!     The  third  bow,  worthy  to  be  noted  in 

one's  almanac  among  the  other  mirahilia,  was  that  of  S ,  in 

which  courtesy  had  mounted  to  the  last  round  of  her  ladder 
— and  tried  to  draw  it  up  after  her. 

But  the  genial  veteran  is  gone  even  while  I  am  writing  this, 
and  I  will  play  Old  Mortality  no  longer.     Wandering  among 

these  recent  graves,  my  dear  friend,  we  may  chance  to 

But  no,  I  will  not  end  my  sentence.  I  bid  you  heartily  fare- 
well. 


PREFACE  TO  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS" 


BY 


WALT    WHITMAN 


WALT  WHITMAN 
1819 — 1892 

The  "  good  gray  poet,"  as  his  admirers  loved  to  call  him,  was  born 
at  West  Hills,  Long  Island,  in  1819.  Walt  Whitman's  father  was  a 
carpenter,  and  the  family  had  little  time  and  still  less  inclination  for 
books.  When  he  was  a  child  his  parents  removed  to  Brooklyn,  where 
he  attended  the  public  schools.  At  the  age  of  thirteen  he  began  to 
support  himself  by  setting  type.  When  less  than  twenty  he  edited  a 
small  Long  Island  paper.  He  contributed  for  a  time  stories  and 
sketches  to  various  papers.  These  he  afterwards  gathered  into  a  vol- 
ume entitled  "  Specimen  Days  and  Collect,"  but  they  are  devoid  of 
any  literary  merit,  and  are  of  interest  only  in  connection  with  his  later 
work.  In  1849  Whitman  travelled  through  the  West  and  South.  He 
edited  a  paper  in  New  Orleans  for  a  year,  afterwards  allowing  himself 
to  drift  around  in  an  indescribably  careless  and  happy-go-lucky  man- 
ner. On  his  return  to  the  East  he  resumed  in  New  York  a  Bohemian 
existence  among  reporters,  literary  men,  actresses,  omnibus  drivers, 
laboring  men,  mingling  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  men  in  metro- 
politan life.  When  in  Brooklyn  he  devoted  himself  to  the  more  serious 
occupation  of  a  carpenter  and  builder,  building  and  selling  small  houses 
for  working-people. 

He  spent  a  large  part  of  his  time,  however,  in  what  was  then  New 
York  City  exclusive  of  Brooklyn,  and  his  huge  and  striking  figure  was 
a  familiar  sight  on  the  ferries  and  omnibuses.  Here  he  delighted  to 
spend  hours  watching  the  crowds,  and  meditating  on  the  themes  to 
which  he  was  soon  to  give  such  striking  and  original  expression.  He 
read  much  during  this  period,  especially  in  the  Bible,  but  his  reading 
was  desultory,  and  left  him  in  absolute  ignorance  of  much  that  would 
be  familiar  enough  to  a  high-school  boy  of  to-day.  In  1855  he  published 
the  book  that  contained  the  outcome  of  his  musings  and  observations 
under  the  title  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass."  The  work  made  a  sensation, 
and  aroused  a  sharp  literary  controversy  as  to  whether  its  author  was 
the  greatest  poet  in  America  or  an  egotistic  and  ignorant  charlatan,  a 
genius  or  an  idiot.  As  the  echoes  of  this  controversy  have  not  yet  died 
away  it  is  too  soon  to  attempt  a  final  estimate.  In  his  own  statement, 
contained  in  the  preface  to  the  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  Whitman  disclaims 
much  that  the  more  reckless  of  his  admirers  have  claimed  for  him. 

During  the  Civil  War,  Whitman  went  to  Washington  and  became  a 
volunteer  nurse  and  an  occasional  correspondent  to  the  New  York 
"  Times."  This  portion  of  his  career  was  strikingly  unselfish  and 
noble.  A  record  of  some  of  his  observations  and  impressions  was  pub- 
lished in  a  volume  entitled  "  Drum  Taps."  On  the  death  of  President 
Lincoln  he  wrote  two  of  his  finest  poems,  "  When  Lilacs  last  in  the 
Door-yard  Bloomed,"  and  "  O  Captain !  My  Captain !  "  In  1873  he 
removed  to  Camden,  New  Jersey,  where  he  lived  until  his  death  in  1892. 
He  published  a  number  of  other  books,  none  of  which  added  materially 
to  the  reputation  he  won  by  his  first. 

Whitman's  style  constitutes  one  of  the  subjects  of  the  controversy 
aroused  by  his  work.  His  poetry  is  without  rhyme  or  rhythm,  and  vio- 
lates every  rule  of  poetical  art  and  tradition.  His  prose  is  clumsy,  at 
times  unintelligible.  Yet,  in  spite  of  this  utter  indifference  to  form. 
Whitman  in  his  prose  sometimes  rises  to  poetic  grandeur,  and  many 
passages  of  his  work  possess  a  rough,  moving  eloquence  and  beauty. 
He  himself  appealed  to  posterity  to  be  the  final  judge  of  his  work,  and 
to  this  appeal  modern  criticism  can  take  no  well-founded  exception. 

418 


PREFACE*  TO  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS 

AMERICA  does  not  repel  the  past,  or  what  the  past  has 
produced  under  its  forms,  or  amid  other  poHtics,  or  the 
idea  of  castes,  or  the  old  religions — accepts  the  lesson 
with  calmness — is  not  impatient  because  the  slough  still  sticks 
to  opinions  and  manners  and  literature,  while  the  life  which 
served  its  requirements  has  passed  into  the  new  life  of  the  new 
forms — perceives  that  the  corpse  is  slowly  borne  from  the  eat- 
ing and  sleeping  rooms  of  the  house — perceives  that  it  waits  a 
little  while  in  the  door — that  it  was  fittest  for  its  days — that  its 
action  has  descended  to  the  stalwart  and  well-shaped  heir  who 
approaches — and  that  he  shall  be  fittest  for  his  days. 

The  Americans,  of  all  nations  at  any  time  upon  the  earth,  have 
probably  the  fullest  poetical  nature.  The  United  States  them- 
selves are  essentially  the  greatest  poem.  In  the  history  of  the 
earth  hitherto,  the  largest  and  most  stirring  appear  tame  and 
orderly  to  their  ampler  largeness  and  stir.  Here  at  last  is  some- 
thing in  the  doings  of  man  that  corresponds  with  the  broad- 
cast doings  of  the  day  and  night.  Here  is  action  untied  from 
strings,  necessarily  blind  to  particulars  and  details,  magnifi- 
cently moving  in  masses.  Here  is  the  hospitality  which  forever 
indicates  heroes.  Here  the  performance,  disdaining  the  trivial, 
unapproached  in  the  tremendous  audacity  of  its  crowds  and 
groupings,  and  the  push  of  its  perspective,  spreads  with  cramp- 
less  and  flowing  breadth,  and  showers  its  prolific  and  splendid 
extravagance.  One  sees  it  must  indeed  own  the  riches  of  the 
summer  and  winter,  and  need  never  be  bankrupt  while  corn 
grows  from  the  ground,  or  the  orchards  drop  apples,  or  the  bays 
contain  fish. 

Other  States  indicate  themselves  in  their  deputies — but  the 
genius  of  the  United  States  in  not  best  or  most  in  its  executives 

*  This  is  the  preface  to  the  first  edition  of  "  Leaves  of  Grass,"  published  In  1855. 

419 


420  WHITMAN 

or  legislatures,  nor  in  its  ambassadors  or  authors,  or  colleges  or 
churches  or  parlors,  nor  even  in  its  newspapers  or  inventors — 
but  always  most  in  the  common  people,  south,  north,  west,  east, 
in  all  its  States,  through  all  its  mighty  amplitude.  The  large- 
ness of  the  nation,  however,  were  monstrous  without  a  cor- 
responding largeness  and  generosity  of  the  spirit  of  the  citizen. 
Not  swarming  States,  nor  streets  and  steamships,  nor  pros- 
perous business,  nor  farms,  nor  capital,  nor  learning,  may  suf- 
fice for  the  ideal  of  man — nor  suffice  the  poet.  No  reminiscences 
may  suffice  either.  A  live  nation  can  always  cut  a  deep  mark, 
and  can  have  the  best  authority  the  cheapest — namely,  from 
its  own  soul.  This  is  the  sum  of  the  profitable  uses  of  individu- 
als or  States,  and  of  present  action  and  grandeur,  and  of  the 
subjects  of  poets.  (As  if  it  were  necessary  to  trot  back  genera- 
tion after  generation  to  the  Eastern  records !  As  if  the  beauty 
and  sacredness  of  the  demonstrable  must  fall  behind  that  of  the 
mythical !  As  if  men  do  not  make  their  mark  out  of  any  times ! 
As  if  the  opening  of  the  Western  continent  by  discovery,  and 
what  has  transpired  in  North  and  South  America,  were  less  than 
the  small  theatre  of  the  antique,  or  the  aimless  sleep-walking 
of  the  Middle  Ages!)  The  pride  of  the  United  States  leaves 
the  wealth  and  finesse  of  the  cities,  and  all  returns  of  commerce 
and  agriculture,  and  all  the  magnitude  of  geography  or  shows 
of  exterior  victory,  to  enjoy  the  sight  and  realization  of  full- 
sized  men,  or  one  full-sized  man  unconquerable  and  simple. 

The  American  poets  are  to  enclose  old  and  new,  for  America 
js  the  race  of  races.  The  expression  of  the  American  poet  is  to 
be  transcendent  and  new.  It  is  to  be  indirect,  and  not  direct 
or  descriptive  or  epic.  Its  quality  goes  through  these  to  much 
more.  Let  the  age  and  wars  of  other  nations  be  chanted,  and 
their  eras  and  characters  be  illustrated,  and  that  finish  the  verse. 
Not  so  the  great  psalm  of  the  republic.  Here  the  theme  is  crea- 
tive, and  has  vista.  Whatever  stagnates  in  the  flat  of  custom  or 
obedience  or  legislation,  the  great  poet  never  stagnates.  Obedi- 
ence does  not  master  him  ;  he  masters  it.  High  up  out  of  reach 
he  stands,  turning  a  concentrated  light — he  turns  the  pivot  with 
his  finger — he  baffles  the  swiftest  runners  as  he  stands,  and 
easily  overtakes  and  envelops  them.  The  time  straying  toward 
infidelity  and  confections  and  persiflage  he  withholds  by  steady 
faith.    Faith  is  the  antisej)tic  of  the  soul — it  pervades  the  com- 


PREFACE  TO   *' LEAVES   OF   GRASS"  421 

mon  people  and  preserves  them — they  never  give  up  believing 
and  expecting  and  trusting.  There  is  that  indescribable  fresh- 
ness and  unconsciousness  about  an  illiterate  person,  that  hum- 
bles and  mocks  the  power  of  the  noblest  expressive  genius.  The 
poet  sees  for  a  certainty  how  one  not  a  great  may  be  just  as 
sacred  and  perfect  as  the  greatest  artist. 

',  The  power  to  destroy  or  remould  is  freely  used  by  the  great- 
est poet,  but  seldom  the  power  of  attack.  What  is  past  is  past. 
If  he  does  not  expose  superior  models,  and  prove  himself  by 
every  step  he  takes,  he  is  not  what  is  wanted.  The  presence  of 
the  great  poet  conquers — not  parleying,  or  struggling  or  any 
prepared  attempt.  Now  he  has  passed  that  way,  see  after  him ! 
There  is  not  left  any  vestige  of  despair,  or  misanthropy  or  cun- 
ning, or  exclusiveness,  or  the  ignominy  of  a  nativity,  or  color,  or 
delusion  of  hell,  or  the  necessity  of  hell — and  no  man  thence- 
forward shall  be  degraded  for  ignorance  or  weakness  or  sin. 
The  greatest  poet  hardly  knows  pettiness  or  triviality.  If  he 
breathes  into  anything  that  was  before  thought  small,  it  dilates 
with  the  grandeur  and  life  of  the  universe.  He  is  a  seer — he  is 
individual — he  is  complete  in  himself — the  others  are  as  good 
as  he,  only  he  sees  it,  and  they  do  not.  He  is  not  one  of  the 
chorus — he  does  not  stop  for  any  regulation — he  is  the  president 
of  regulation.  What  the  eyesight  does  to  the  rest,  he  does  to 
the  rest.  Who  knows  the  curious  mystery  of  the  eyesight? 
The  other  senses  corroborate  themselves,  but  this  is  removed 
from  any  proof  but  its  own,  and  foreruns  the  identities  of  the 
spiritual  world.  A  single  glance  of  it  mocks  all.t]ie.inve 
tions  of  man,  and  all  the  instruments  and  books  of  the  earth, 
and  all  reasoning.  What  is  marvellous?  What  is  unlikely? 
What  is  impossible  or  baseless  or  vague — after  you  have  once 
just  opened  the  space  of  a  peach-pit,  and  given  audience  to  far 
and  near,  and  to  the  sunset,  and  had  all  things  enter  with  electric 
swiftness,  softly  and  duly,  without  confusion  or  jostling  or  jam  ? 
The  land  and  sea,  the  animals,  fishes,  and  birds,  the  sky  of 
heaven  and  the  orbs,  the  forests,  mountains  and  rivers,  are  not 
small  themes — but  folks  expect  of  the  poet  to  indicate  more  than 
the  beauty  and  dignity  which  always  attach  to  dumb  real  ob- 
jects— ^they  expect  him  to  indicate  the  path  between  reality  and 
their  souls.  Men  and  women  perceive  the  beauty  well  enough — 
probably  as  well  as  he.     The  passionate  tenacity  of  hunters, 


422  WHITMAN 

woodmen,  early  risers,  cultivators  of  gardens  and  orchards  and 
fields,  the  love  of  healthy  women  for  the  manly  form,  seafaring 
persons,  drivers  of  horses,  the  passion  for  light  and  the  open 
air,  all  is  an  old  varied  sign  of  the  unfailing  perception  of  beau- 
ty, and  of  a  residence  of  the  poetic  in  out-door  people.  They 
can  never  be  assisted  by  poets  to  perceive — some  may,  but  they 
never  can.  The  poetic  quality  is  not  marshalled  in  rhyme  or 
uniformity,  or  abstract  addresses  to  things,  nor  in  melancholy 
complaints  or  good  precepts,  but  is  the  life  of  these  and  much 
else,  and  is  in  the  soul.  The  profit  of  rhyme  is  that  it  drops  seeds 
of  a  sweeter  and  more  luxuriant  rhyme,  and  of  uniformity  that 
it  conveys  itself  into  its  own  roots  in  the  ground  out  of  sight. 
The  rhyme  and  uniformity  of  perfect  poems  show  the  free 
growth  of  metrical  laws,  and  bud  from  them  as  unerringly  and 
loosely  as  lilacs  and  roses  on  a  bush,  and  take  shapes  as  com- 
pact as  the  shapes  of  chestnuts  and  oranges,  and  melons  and 
pears,  and  shed  the  perfume  impalpable  to  form.  The  fluency 
and  ornaments  of  the  finest  poems  or  music  or  orations  or  recita- 
tions, are  not  independent  but  dependent.  All  beauty  comes 
from  beautiful  blood  and  a  beautiful  brain.  If  the  greatnesses 
are  in  conjunction  in  a  man  or  woman,  it  is  enough — the  fact  will 
prevail  through  the  universe;  but  the  gaggery  and  gilt  of  a 
million  years  will  not  prevail.  Who  troubles  himself  about  his 
ornaments  or  fluency  is  lost.  This  is  what  you  shall  do :  Lpve_ 
the  earth  and  sun  and  the  animals,  despise  riches,  give  alms  to 
everyone  that  asks,  stand  up  for  the  stupid  and  crazy,  devote 
your  income  and  labor  to  others,  hate  tyrants,  argue  not  con- 
cerning God,  have  patience  and  indulgence  towards  the  people, 
take  of¥  your  hat  to  nothing  known  or  unknown,  or  to  any  man 
or  number  of  men — go  freely  with  powerful  uneducated  persons, 
and  with  the  young  and  with  the  mothers  of  families — ^reex-^ 
amine  all  you  have  been  told  in  school  or  church  or  in  any  book, 
and  dismiss  whatever  insults  your  own  soul ;  and  your  very 
flesh  shall  be  a  great  poem,  and  have  the  richest  fluency^  not 
only  in  its  words,  but  in  the  silent  lines  of  its  lips  and  face,  and 
between  the  lashes  of  your  eyes,  and  in  every  motion  and  joint 
of  your  body.  The  poet  shall  not  spend  his  time  in  unneeded 
work.  He  shall  know  that  the  ground  is  already  ploughed  and 
manured;  others  may  not  know  it,  but  he  shall.    He  shall  go 


PREFACE  TO  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS"       423 

directly  to  the  creation.  His  trust  shall  master  the  trust  of 
everything  he  touches — and  shall  master  all  attachment. 

The  known  universe  has  one  complete  lover,  and  that  is  the 
greatest  poet.  He  consumes  an  eternal  passion,  and  is  indif- 
ferent which  chance  happens,  and  which  possible  contingency 
of  fortune  or  misfortune,  and  persuades  daily  and  hourly  his 
delicious  pay.  What  balks  or  breaks  others  is  fuel  for  his  burn- 
ing progress  to  contact  and  amorous  joy.  Other  proportions  of 
the  reception  of  pleasure  dwindle  to  nothing  to  his  proportions. 
All  expected  from  heaven  or  from  the  highest,  he  is  rapport 
within  the  sight  of  the  daybreak,  or  the  scenes  of  the  winter 
woods,  or  the  presence  of  children  playing,  or  with  his  arm 
round  the  neck  of  a  man  or  woman.  His  love  above  all  love  has 
leisure  and  expanse — he  leaves  room  ahead  of  himself.  He  is 
no  irresolute  or  suspicious  lover — he  is  sure — he  scorns  in- 
tervals. His  experience  and  the  showers  and  thrills  are  not  for 
nothing.  Nothing  can  jar  him — suffering  and  darkness  cannot 
— death  and  fear  cannot.  To  him  complaint  and  jealousy  and 
envy  are  corpses  buried  and  rotten  in  the  earth — he  saw  them 
buried.  The  sea  is  not  surer  of  the  shore,  or  the  shore  of  the 
sea,  than  he  is  the  fruition  of  his  love,  and  of  all  perfection  and 
beauty. 

The  fruition  of  beauty  is  no  chance  of  miss  or  hit — it  is  as 
inevitable  as  life — it  is  exact  and  plumb  as  gravitation.  From 
the  eyesight  proceeds  another  eyesight,  and  from  the  hearing 
proceeds  another  hearing,  and  from  the  voice  proceeds  another 
voice,  eternally  curious  of  the  harmony  of  things  with  man. 
These  understand  the  law  of  perfection  in  masses  and  floods — 
that  it  is  profuse  and  impartial— that  there  is  not  a  minute  of 
the  light  or  dark,  nor  an  acre  of  the  earth  and  sea,  without  it 
— nor  any  direction  of  the  sky,  nor  any  trade  or  employment,  nor 
any  turn  of  events.  This  is  the  reason  that  about  the  proper  ex- 
pression of  beauty  there  is  precision  and  balance.  One  part  does 
not  need  to  be  thrust  above  another.  The  best  singer  is  not  the 
one  who  has  the  most  lithe  and  powerful  organ.  The  pleasure 
of  poems  is  not  in  them  that  take  the  handsomest  measure  and 
sound. 

Without  effort,  and  without  exposing  in  the  least  how  it  is 
done,  the  greatest  poet  brings  the  spirit  of  any  or  all  events  and 
passions  and  scenes  and  persons,  some  more  and  some  less,  to 


424  WHITMAN 

bear  on  your  individual  character  as  you  hear  or  read.  To  do 
this  well  is  to  compete  with  the  laws  that  pursue  and  follow 
Time.  What  is  the  purpose  must  surely  be  there,  and  the  clew 
of  it  must  be  there — and  the  faintest  indication  is  the  indication 
of  the  best,  and  then  becomes  the  clearest  indication.  Past  and 
present  and  future  are  not  disjoined  but  joined.  The  greatest 
poet  forms  the  consistence  of  what  is  to  be,  from  what  has  been 
and  is.  He  drags  the  dead  out  of  their  coffins  and  stands  them 
again  on  their  feet.  He  says  to  the  past.  Rise  and  walk  before 
me  that  I  may  realize  you.  He  learns  the  lesson — he  places  him- 
self where  the  future  becomes  present.  The  greatest  poet  does 
not  only  dazzle  his  rays  over  character  and  scenes  and  passions 
— he  finally  ascends,  and  finishes  all — he  exhibits  the  pinnacles 
that  no  man  can  tell  what  they  are  for,  or  what  is  beyond — 
he  glows  a  moment  on  the  extremest  verge.  He  is  most  wonder- 
ful in  his  last  half-hidden  smile  or  frown ;  by  that  flash  of  the 
moment  of  parting  the  one  that  sees  it  shall  be  encouraged  or 
terrified  afterward  for  many  years.  The  greatest  does  not 
moralize  or  make  application  of  morals — he  knows  the  soul. 
The  soul  has  that  measureless  pride  which  consists  in  never 
acknowledging  any  lessons  or  deductions  but  its  own.  But  it 
has  sympathy  as  measureless  as  its  pride,  and  the  one  balances 
the  other,  and  neither  can  stretch  too  far  while  it  stretches  in 
company  with  the  other.  The  inmost  secrets  of  art  sleep  with 
the  twain.  The  greatest  poet  has  lain  close  betwixt  both,  and 
they  are  vital  in  his  style  and  thoughts. 

The  art  of  art,  the  glory  of  expression  and  the  sunshine  of 
the  light  of  letters,  is  simplicity.  Nothing  is  better  than  sim- 
plicity— nothing  can  make  up  for  excess,  or  for  the  lack  of 
definiteness.  To  carry  on  the  heave  of  impulse  and  pierce  in- 
tellectual depths  and  give  all  subjects  their  articulations,  are 
powers  neither  common  nor  very  uncommon.  But  to  speak  in 
literature  with  the  perfect  rectitude  and  insouciance  of  the  move- 
ments of  animals,  and  the  unimpeachableness  of  the  sentiment 
of  trees  in  the  woods  and  grass  by  the  roadside,  is  the  flawless 
triumph  of  art.  If  you  have  looked  on  him  who  has  achieved  it 
you  have  looked  on  one  of  the  masters  of  the  artists  of  all  na- 
tions and  times.  You  shall  not  contemplate  the  flight  of  the  gray 
gull  over  the  bay,  or  the  mettlesome  action  of  the  blood  horse, 
or  the  tall  leaning  of  sunflowers  on  their  stalk,  or  the  appearance 


PREFACE  TO  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS"       425 

of  the  sun  journeying  through  heaven  or  the  appearance 
of  the  moon  afterward,  with  any  more  satisfaction  than  you 
shall  contemplate  him.  The  great  poet  has  less  a  marked  style, 
and  is  more  the  channel  of  thoughts  and  things  without  increase 
or  diminution,  and  is  the  free  channel  of  himself.  He  swears 
to  his  art,  I  will  not  be  meddlesome,  I  will  noniave  imny^rit- 
ing  any  elegance,  or  effect,  or  originality,  to  hang  in  the  way 
between  me  and  the  rest  like  curtains.  I  will  have  nothing  hang 
in  the  way,  not  the  richest  curtains.  What  I  tell  I  tell  for  pre- 
cisely what  it  is.  Let  who  may  exalt  or  startle  or  fascinate  or 
soothe,  I  will  have  purposes  as  health  oj  heat  or  snow  has,  and 
be  as  regardless  of  observation.  What  I  experience  or  portray 
shall  go  from  my  composition  without  a  shred  of  my  composi- 
tion. You  shall  stand  by  my  side  and  look  in  the  mirror  with 
me. 

The  old  red  blood  and  stainless  gentility  of  great  poets  will 
be  proved  by  their  unconstraint.  A  heroic  person  walks  at  his 
ease  through  and  out  of  that  custom  or  precedent  or  authority 
that  suits  him  not.  Of  the  traits  of  the  brotherhood  of  first- 
class  writers,  savans,  musicians,  inventors,  and  artists  nothing 
is  finer  than  silent  defiance  advancing  from  new  free  forms.  In 
the  need  of  poems,  philosophy,  politics,  mechanism,  science,  be- 
havior, the  craft  of  art,  an  appropriate  native  grand  opera,  ship- 
craft,  or  any  craft,  he  is  greatest  forever  and  ever  who  con- 
tributes the  greatest  original  practical  example.  The  cleanest 
expression  is  that  which  finds  no  sphere  worthy  of  itself,  and 
makes  one. 

The  messages  of  great  poems  to  each  man  and  woman  are, 
Come  to  us  on  equal  terms,  only  then  can  you  understand  us. 
We  are  no  better  than  you.  What  we  inclose  you  inclose,  what 
we  enjoy  you  may  enjoy.  Did  you  suppose  there  could  be  only 
one  Supreme  ?  We  affirm  there  can  be  unnumbered  Supremes, 
and  that  one  does  not  countervail  another  any  more  than  eye- 
sight countervails  another — and  that  men  can  be  good  or  grand 
only  of  the  consciousness  of  their  supremacy  within  them. 
What  do  you  think  is  the  grandeur  of  storms  and  dismember- 
ments, and  the  deadliest  battles  and  wrecks,  and  the  wildest  fury 
of  the  elements,  and  the  power  of  the  sea,  and  the  motion  of 
nature,  and  the  throes  of  human  desires,  and  dignity  and  hate 
and  love?    It  is  that  something  in  the  soul  which  says,  Rage 


426  WHITMAN 

on,  whirl  on,  I  tread  master  here  and  everywhere — Master  of 
the  spasms  of  the  sky  and  of  the  shatter  of  the  sea.  Master  of 
nature  and  passion  and  death,  and  of  all  terror  and  all  pain. 

The  American  bards  shall  be  marked  for  generosity  and  affec- 
tion, and  for  encouraging  competitors.  They  shall  be  Kosmos, 
without  monopoly  or  secrecy,  glad  to  pass  anything  to  anyone 
— hungry  for  equals  night  and  day.  They  shall  not  be  careful  of 
riches  and  privilege — they  shall  be  riches  and  privilege — they 
shall  perceive  who  the  most  affluent  man  is.  The  most  affluent 
man  is  he  that  confronts  all  the  shows  he  sees  by  equivalents  out 
of  the  stronger  wealth  of  himself.  The  American  bard  shall 
delineate  no  class  of  persons,  nor  one  or  two  out  of  the  strata 
of  interests,  nor  love  most  nor  truth  most,  nor  the  soul  most,  nor 
the  body  most — and  not  be  for  the  Eastern  States  more  than 
the  Western,  or  the  Northern  States  more  than  the  Southern. 

Exact  science  and  its  practical  movements  are  no  checks  on 
the  greatest  poet,  but  always  his  encouragement  and  support. 
The  outset  and  remembrance  are  there — there  the  arms  that 
lifted  him  first,  and  braced  him  best — there  he  returns  after  all 
his  goings  and  comings.  The  sailor  and  traveller — the  anatomist, 
chemist,  astronomer,  geologist,  phrenologist,  spiritualist,  mathe- 
matician, historian,  and  lexicographer,  are  not  poets,  but  they 
are  the  lawgivers  of  poets,  and  their  construction  underlies  the 
structure  of  every  perfect  poem.  No  matter  what  rises  or  is  ut- 
tered, they  sent  the  seed  of  the  conception  of  it — of  them  and  by 
them  stand  the  visible  proofs  of  souls.  If  there  shall  be  love  and 
content  between  the  father  and  the  son,  and  if  the  greatness  of 
the  son  is  the  exuding  of  the  greatness  of  the  father,  there  shall 
be  love  between  the  poet  and  the  man  of  demonstrable  science. 
In  the  beauty  of  poems  are  henceforth  the  tuft  and  final  ap- 
plause of  science. 

Great  is  the  faith  of  the  flush  of  knowledge,  and  of  the  inves- 
tigation of  the  depths  of  qualities  and  things.  Cleaving  and 
circling  here  swells  the  soul  of  the  poet,  yet  is  president  of  itself 
always.  The  depths  are  fathomless,  and  therefore  calm.  The 
innocence  and  nakedness  are  resumed — they  are  neither  modest 
nor  immodest.  The  whole  theory  of  the  supernatural,  and  all 
that  was  twined  with  it  or  educed  out  of  it,  departs  as  a  dream. 
What  has  ever  happened — what  happens,  and  whatever  may  or 
shall  happen,  the  vital  laws  inclose  all.    They  are  sufficient  for 


PREFACE  TO  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS" 


427 


any  case  and  for  all  cases — none  to  be  hurried  or  retarded — any 
special  miracle  of  affairs  or  persons  inadmissible  in  the  vast 
clear  scheme  where  every  motion  and  every  spear  of  grass,  and 
the  frames  and  spirits  of  men  and  women  and  all  that  concerns 
them,  are  unspeakably  perfect  miracles,  all  referring  to  all,  and 
each  distinct  and  in  its  place.  It  is  also  not  consistent  with  the 
reality  of  the  soul  to  admit  that  there  is  anything  in  the  known 
universe  more  divine  than  men  and  women. 

Men  and  women,  and  the  earth  and  all  upon  it,  are  to  be  taken 
as  they  are,  and  the  investigation  of  their  past  and  present  and 
future  shall  be  unintermitted,  and  shall  be  done  with  perfect 
candor.  Upon  this  basis  philosophy  speculates,  ever  looking 
towards  the  poet,  ever  regarding  the  eternal  tendencies  of  all 
towards  happiness,  never  inconsistent  with  what  is  clear  to  the 
senses  and  to  the  soul.  For  the  eternal  tendencies  of  all  towards 
happiness  make  the  only  point  of  sane  philosophy.  Whatever 
comprehends  less  than  that — whatever  is  less  than  the  laws  of 
light  and  of  astronomical  motion — or  less  than  the  laws  that 
follow  the  thief,  the  liar,  the  glutton,  and  the  drunkard,  through 
this  life  and  doubtless  afterward — or  less  than  vast  stretches 
of  time,  or  the  slow  formation  of  destiny,  or  the  patient  up- 
heaving of  strata — is  of  no  account.  Whatever  would  put  God 
in  a  poem  or  system  of  philosophy  as  contending  against  some 
being  or  influence,  is  also  of  no  account.  Sanity  and  ensemble 
characterize  the  great  master — spoilt  in  one  principle,  all  is 
spoilt.  The  great  master  has  nothing  to  do  with  miracles.  He 
sees  health  for  himself  in  being  jone  of  the  mass — he  sees  the 
hiatus  in  singular  eminence.  To  the  perfect  shape  comes  com- 
mon ground.  To  be  under  the  general  law  is  great,  for  that  is 
to  correspond  with  it.  The  Master  knows  that  he  is  unspeak- 
ably great,  that  all  are  unspeakably  great — that  nothing,  for 
instance,  is  greater  than  to  conceive  children,  and  bring  them 
up  well — that  to  be  is  just  as  great  as  to  perceive  or  tell. 

In  the  make  of  the  great  masters  the  idea  of  political  liberty 
is  indispensable.  Liberty  takes  the  adherence  of  heroes  wher- 
ever man  and  woman  exist — but  never  takes  any  adherence  or 
welcome  from  the  rest  more  than  from  poets.  They  are  the 
voice  and  exposition  of  liberty.  They  out  of  ages  are  worthy 
the  grand  idea — to  them  it  is  confided,  and  they  must  sustain  it. 
Nothing  has  precedence  of  it  and  nothing  can  warp  or  de- 
grade it. 


428  WHITMAN 

As  the  attributes  of  the  poets  of  the  Kosmos  concentre  in  the 
real  body,  and  in  the  pleasure  of  things,  they  possess  the  superi- 
ority of  genuineness  over  all  fiction  and  romance.  As  they  emit 
themselves,  facts  are  showered  over  with  light — the  daylight 
is  lit  with  more  volatile  light — the  deep  between  the  setting  and 
rising  sun  goes  deeper  many  fold.  Each  precise  object  or  con- 
dition or  combination  or  process  exhibits  a  beauty — the  mul- 
tiplication table  its — old  age  its — the  carpenter's  trade  its — the 
grand  opera  its — the  huge-hulled  clean-shaped  New  York  clip- 
per at  sea  under  steam  or  full  sail  gleams  with  unmatched  beau- 
ty— the  American  circles  and  large  harmonies  of  government 
gleam  with  theirs — and  the  commonest  definite  intentions  and 
actions  with  theirs.  The  poets  of  the  Kosmos  advance  through 
all  interpositions  and  coverings  and  turmoils  and  stratagems 
to  first  principles.  They  are  of  use — they  dissolve  poverty  from 
its  need,  and  riches  from  its  conceit.  You  large  proprietor, 
they  say,  shall  not  realize  or  perceive  more  than  anyone  else. 
The  owner  of  the  library  is  not  he  who  holds  a  legal  title  to  it, 
having  bought  and  pair  for  it.  Anyone  and  everyone  is  owner 
of  the  library  (indeed  he  or  she  alone  is  owner),  who  can 
read  the  same  through  all  the  varieties  of  tongues  and  subjects 
and  styles,  and  in  whom  they  enter  with  ease,  and  make  supple 
and  powerful  and  rich  and  large. 

These  American  States,  strong  and  healthy  and  accomplished, 
shall  receive  no  pleasure  from  violations  of  natural  models,  and 
must  not  permit  them.  In  paintings  or  mouldings  or  carvings 
in  mineral  or  wood,  or  in  the  illustrations  of  books  or  news- 
papers, or  in  the  patterns  of  woven  stuffs,  or  anything  to  beau- 
tify rooms  or  furniture  or  costumes,  or  to  put  upon  cornices  or 
monuments,  or  on  the  prows  or  sterns  of  ships,  or  to  put  any- 
where before  the  human  eye  indoors  or  out,  that  which  distorts 
honest  shapes,  or  which  creates  unearthly  beings  or  places  or 
contingencies,  is  a  nuisance  and  revolt.  Of  the  human  form 
especially,  it  is  so  great  it  must  never  be  made  ridiculous.  Of 
ornaments  to  a  work  nothing  outre  can  be  allowed — but  those 
ornaments  can  be  allowed  that  conform  to  the  perfect  facts  of 
the  open  air,  and  that  flow  out  of  the  nature  of  the  work,  and 
come  irrepressibly  from  it,  and  are  necessary  to  the  completion 
of  the  work.  Most  works  are  most  beautiful  without  ornament. 
Exaggerations  will  be  revenged  in  human  physiology.     Clean 


PREFACE  to  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS"      4^9 

and  vigorous,  children  are  born  only  in  those  communities 
where  the  models  of  natural  forms  are  public  every  day. 
Great  genius  and  the  people  of  these  States  must  never  be 
demeaned  to  romances.  As  soon  as  histories  are  properly  told, 
no  more  need  of  romances. 

The  great  poets  are  to  be  known  by  the  absence  in  them  of 
.tricks,  and  by  the  justification  of  perfect  personal  candor.  All 
faults  may  be  forgiven  of  him^who  has  perfect  candor.  Hence- 
forth let  no  man  of  us  Jie,  for  we  have  seen  that  openness  wins 
the  inner  and  outer  world,  and  that  there  is  no  single  exception,' 
and  that  never  since  our  earth  gathered  itself  in  a  mass  has 
deceit  or  subterfuge  or  prevarication  attracted  its  smallest  par- 
ticle or  the  faintest  tinge  of  a  shade — and  that  through  the  en- 
veloping wealth  and  rank  of  a  State,  or  the  whole  republic  of 
States,  a  sneak  or  sly  person  shall  be  discovered  and  despised 
— and  that  the  soul  has  never  once  been  fooled  and  never  can 
^efooled — and  thrift  without  the  loving  nod  of  the  soul  is  only  a 
fetid  puff — and  there  never  grew  up  in  any  of  the  continents 
of  the  globe,  nor  upon  any  planet  or  satellite,  nor  in  that  con- 
dition which  precedes  the  birth  of  babes,  nor  at  any  time  during 
the  changes  of  life,  nor  in  any  stretch  of  abeyance  or  action  of 
vitality,  nor  in  any  process  of  formation  or  reformation  any- 
where, a  being  whose  instinct  hated  the  truth. 

Extreme  caution  or  prudence,  the  soundest  organic  health, 
large  hope  and  comparison  and  fondness  for  women  and  chil- 
dren, large  alimentiveness  and  destructiveness  and  causality, 
with  a  perfect  sense  of  the  oneness  of  nature,  and  the  propriety 
of  the  same  spirit  applied  to  human  affairs,  are  called  up  of  the 
float  of  the  brain  of  the  world  to  be  parts  of  the  greatest  poet 
from  his  birth  out  of  his  mother's  womb,  and  from  her  birth 
out  of  her  mother's.  Caution  seldom  goes  far  enough.  It  has 
been  thought  that  the  prudent  citizen  was  the  citizen  who  ap- 
plied himself  to  solid  gains,  and  did  well  for  himself  and  for  his 
family,  and  completed  a  lawful  life  without  debt  or  crime.  The 
greatest  poet  sees  and  admits  these  economies  as  he  sees  the 
economies  of  food  and  sleep,  but  has  higher  notions  of  prudence 
than  to  think  he  gives  much  when  he  gives  a  few  slight  atten- 
tions at  the  latch  of  the  gate.  The  premises  of  the  prudence  of 
life  are  not  the  hospitality  of  it,  or  the  ripeness  and  harvest  of 
it.   Beyond  the  independence  of  a  little  sum  laid  aside  for  burial- 


430  WHITMAN 

money,  and  of  a  few  clap-boards  around  and  shingles  overhead 
on  a  lot  of  American  soil  owned,  and  the  easy  dollars  that  sup- 
ply the  year's  plain  clothing  and  meals,  the  melancholy  prudence 
of  the  abandonment  of  such  a  great  being  as  a  man  is,  to  the  toss 
and  pallor  of  years  of  money-making,  with  all  their  scorching 
days  and  icy  nights,  and  all  their  stifling  deceits  and  underhand 
dodgings,  or  infinitesimals  of  parlors,  or  shameless  stuffing 
while  others  starve,  and  all  the  loss  of  the  bloom  and  odor  of  the 
earth,  and  of  the  flowers  and  atmosphere,  and  of  the  sea,  and 
of  the  true  taste  of  the  women  and  men  you  pass  or  have  to  do 
with  in  youth  or  middle  age,  and  the  issuing  sickness  and  des- 
perate revolt  at  the  close  of  a  life  without  elevation  or  naivete 
(even  if  you  have  achieved  a  secure  $io,cx)0  a  year,  or  election 
to  Congress  or  the  Governorship),  and  the  ghastly  chatter  of  a 
death  without  serenity  or  majesty,  is  the  great  fraud  upon 
modern  civilization  and  forethought,  blotching  the  surface  and 
system  which  civilization  undeniably  drafts,  and  moistening 
with  tears  the  immense  features  it  spreads  and  spreads  with 
such  velocity  before  the  reached  kisses  of  the  soul. 

Ever  the  right  explanation  remains  to  be  made  about  pru- 
dence. The  prudence  of  the  mere  wealth  and  respectability  of 
the  most  esteemed  life  appears  too  faint  for  the  eye  to  observe 
at  all,  when  little  and  large  alike  drop  quietly  aside  at  the 
thought  of  the  prudence  suitable  for  immortality.  What  is  the 
wisdom  that  fills  the  thinness  of  a  year,  or  seventy  or  eighty 
years — to  the  wisdom  spaced  out  by  ages,  and  coming  back  at  a 
certain  time  with  strong  reinforcements  and  rich  presents,  and 
the  clear  faces  of  wedding-guests  as  far  as  you  can  look,  in 
every  direction,  running  gayly  towards  you?  Only  the  soul  is 
of  itself — all  else  has  reference  to  what  ensues.  All  that  a  per- 
son does  or  thinks  is  of  consequence.  Nor  can  the  push  of 
charity  or  personal  force  ever  be  anything  else  than  the  pro- 
foundest  reason,  whether  it  brings  argument  to  hand  or  no. 
No  specification  is  necessary — to  add  or  subtract  or  divide  is 
in  vain.  Little  or  big,  learned  or  unlearned,  white  or  black, 
legal  or  illegal,  sick  or  well,  from  the  first  inspiration  down  the 
windpipe  to  the  last  expiration  out  of  it,  all  that  a  male  or  female 
does  that  is  vigorous  and  benevolent  and  clean  is  so  much  sure 
profit  to  him  or  her  in  the  unshakable  order  of  the  universe,  and 
through  the  whole  scope  of  it  forever.    The  prudence  of  the 


PREFACE  TO  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS»»      431 

greatest  poet  answers  at  last  the  craving  and  glut  of  the  soul, 
puts  off  nothing,  permits  no  let-up  for  its  own  case  or  any  case, 
has  no  particular  Sabbath  or  Judgment  Day,  divides  not  the  liv- 
ing from  the  dead,  or  the  righteous  from  the  unrighteous,  is 
satisfied  with  the  present,  matches  every  thought  or  act  by  its 
correlative,  and  knows  no  possible  forgiveness  or  deputed  atone- 
ment. 

The  direct  trial  of  him  who  would  be  the  greatest  poet  is  to- 
day. If  he  does  not  flood  himself  with  the  immediate  age  as 
with  vast  oceanic  tides — if  he  be  not  himself  the  age  transfig- 
ured and  if  to  him  is  not  opened  the  eternity  which  gives  simili- 
tude to  all  periods  and  locations  and  processes,  and  animate  and 
inanimate  forms,  and  which  is  the  bond  of  time,  and  rises  up 
from  its  conceivable  vagueness  and  infiniteness  in  the  swim- 
ming shapes  of  to-day,  and  is  held  by  the  ductile  anchors  of  life, 
and  makes  the  present  spot  the  passage  from  what  was  to  what 
shall  be,  and  commits  itself  to  the  representation  of  this  wave 
of  an  hour,  and  this  one  of  the  sixty  beautiful  children  of  the 
wave — let  him  merge  in  the  general  run,  and  wait  his  develop- 
ment. 

Still  the  final  test  of  poems,  or  any  character  or  work,  re- 
mains. The  prescient  poet  projects  himself  centuries  ahead, 
and  judges  performer  or  performance  after  the  changes  of  time. 
Does  it  live  through  them  ?  Does  it  still  hold  on  untired  ?  Will 
the  same  style,  and  the  direction  of  genius  to  similar  points,  be 
satisfactory  now  ?  Have  the  marches  of  tens  and  hundreds  and 
thousands  of  years  made  willing  detours  to  the  right  hand  and 
the  left  hand  for  his  sake  ?  Is  he  beloved  long  and  long  after 
he  is  buried  ?  Does  the  young  man  think  often  of  him  ?  and  the 
young  woman  think  often  of  him  ?  and  do  the  middle-aged  and 
the  old  think  of  him  ? 

A  great  poem  is  for  ages  and  ages  in  common,  and  for  all 
degrees  and  complexions,  and  all  departments  and  sects,  and 
for  a  woman  as  much  as  a  man,  and  a  man  as  much  as  a  woman. 
A  great  poem  is  no  finish  to  a  man  or  woman,  but  rather  a  be- 
ginning. Has  anyone  fancied  he  could  sit  at  last  under  some 
due  authority,  and  rest  satisfied  with  explanations,  and  realize, 
and  be  content  and  full  ?  To  no  such  terminus  does  the  greatest 
poet  bring — he  brings  neither  cessation  nor  sheltered  fatness  and 
ease.    The  touch  of  him,  like  nature,  tells  in  action.    Whom  he 


43Jt  WHITMAN 

takes  he  takes  with  firm,  sure  grasp  into  live  regions  previously 
unattained — thenceforward  is  no  rest — they  see  the  space  and 
ineffable  sheen  that  turn  the  old  spots  and  lights  into  dead 
vacuums.  Now  there  shall  be  a  man  cohered  out  of  tumult 
and  chaos — the  elder  encourages  the  younger  and  shows  him 
how — they  too  shall  launch  off  fearlessly  together  till  the  new 
world  fits  an  orbit  for  itself,  and  looks  unabashed  on  the  lesser 
orbits  of  the  stars,  and  sweeps  through  the  ceaseless  rings,  and 
shall  never  be  quiet  again. 

There  will  soon  be  no  more  priests.  Their  work  is  done. 
A  new  order  shall  arise,  and  they  shall  be  the  priests  of  man, 
and  every  man  shall  be  his  own  priest.  They  shall  find  their 
inspiration  in  real  objects  to-day,  symptoms  of  the  past  and 
future.  They  shall  not  deign  to  defend  immortality  or  God,  or 
the  perfection  of  things,  or  liberty,  or  the  exquisite  beauty,  and 
reality  of  the  soul  they  shall  arise  in  America,  and  be  responded 
to  from  the  remainder  of  the  earth. 

The  English  language  befriends  the  grand  American  expres- 
sion— it  is  brawny  enough,  and  limber  and  full  enough.  On 
the  tough  stock  of  a  race  who  through  all  change  of  circum- 
stance was  never  without  the  idea  of  political  liberty,  which  is 
the  animus  of  all  liberty,  it  has  attracted  the  terms  of  daintier 
and  gayer  and  subtler  and  more  elegant  tongues.  It  is  the 
powerful  language  of  resistance — it  is  the  dialect  of  common- 
sense.  It  is  the  speech  of  the  proud  and  melancholy  races,  and 
of  all  who  aspire.  It  is  the  chosen  tongue  to  express  growth, 
faith,  self-esteem,  freedom,  justice,  equality,  friendliness,  ampli- 
tude, prudence,  decision,  and  courage.  It  is  the  medium  that 
shall  well-nigh  express  the  inexpressible. 

No  great  literature,  nor  any  like  style  of  behavior  or  oratory 
or  social  intercourse  or  household  arrangements  or  public  insti- 
tutions, or  the  treatment  by  bosses  of  employed  people,  nor  ex- 
ecutive detail,  or  detail  of  the  army  and  navy,  nor  spirit  of 
legislation  or  courts,  or  police  or  tuition  or  architecture,  or 
songs  or  amusements,  can  long  elude  the  jealous  and  passionate 
instinct  of  American  standards.  Whether  or  no  the  sign  ap- 
pears from  the  mouths  of  the  people,  it  throbs  a  live  interroga- 
tion in  every  freeman's  and  freewoman's  heart,  after  that  which 
passes  by  or  this  built  to  remain.  Is  it  uniform  with  my  coun- 
try ?    Are  its  disposals  without  ignominious  distinctions  ?    Is  it 


PREFACE  TO  "LEAVES  OF  GRASS" 


433 


for  the  ever-growing  communes  of  brothers  and  lovers,  large, 
well  united,  proud  beyond  the  old  models,  generous  beyond  all 
models?  Is  it  something  grown  fresh  out  of  the  fields  or 
drawn  from  the  sea  for  use  to  me  to-day  here?  I  know  that 
what  answers  for  me,  an  American,  in  Texas,  Ohio,  Canada, 
must  answer  for  any  individual  or  nation  that  serves  for  a  part 
of  my  materials.  Does  this  answer?  Is  it  for  the  nursery  of 
the  young  of  the  republic  ?  Does  it  solve  readily  with  the  sweet 
milk  of  the  nipples  of  the  breasts  of  the  Mother  of  Many  Chil- 
dren? 

America  prepares  with  composure  and  good-will  for  the 
visitors  that  have  sent  word.  It  is  not  intellect  that  is  to  be 
their  warrant  and  welcome.  The  talented,  the  artist,  the  in- 
genious, the  editor,  the  statesman,  the  erudite,  are  not  unap- 
preciated— they  fall  in  their  places  and  d^  their  work.  The  soul 
of  the  nation  also  does  its  work.  It  rejects  none,  ijt_permits  all. 
Only  towards  the  like  of  itself  will  it  advance  half  way.  An 
individual  is  as  superb  as  a  nation  when  he  has  the  qualities 
which  make  a  superb  nation.  The  soul  of  the  largest  and 
wealthiest  and  proudest  nation  may  well  go  half  way  to  meet 
that  of  its  poets. 


JAMES    FENIMORE    COOPER 


BY 


FRANCIS     PARKMAN 


FRANCIS   PARKMAN 
1823— 1893 

Francis  Parkman  was  born  at  Boston  in  1823.  His  family  were  peo- 
ple of  wealth  and  education,  and  thus  he  was  from  childhood  sur- 
rounded by  influences  favorable  to  a  scholarly  development.  His  health, 
however,  was  far  from  strong,  and  for  several  years  during  his  boy- 
hood he  lived  in  the  Middlesex  Fells,  a  wild  tract  not  far  from  the  city, 
hunting,  fishing,  living  a  real  frontier  existence.  From  time  to  time 
he  set  out  on  extensive  expeditions,  roaming  through  the  Maine  woods 
and  the  region  about  Lake  George  and  Lake  Champlain,  localities 
abounding  in  historical  interest.  Already  he  had  determined  to  devote 
his  life  to  telling  the  story  of  the  great  struggle  between  the  English 
colonists  and  the  French  and  Indians.  Soon  after  graduating  from 
Harvard  College  in  1844  Parkman  set  out  for  the  far  distant  Black 
Hills,  where  he  shared  the  hardships  and  privations  incident  to  life 
among  the  Indians,  with  a  view  to  learning  their  manner  of  living  and 
thinking.  His  constitution,  unfortunately,  was  ill  adapted  to  this  rough 
life,  and  his  health  broke  down  completely.  On  his  return  home  he 
was  too  feeble  to  write,  but  dictated  an  account  of  his  experiences  which, 
after  being  printed  in  a  magazine,  was  published  in  a  volume  entitled 
"  The  California  and  Oregon  Trail."  This  book  was  published  in  1849. 
Two  years  later  appeared  the  first  volume  of  the  great  historical  work 
that  had  already  shaped  itself  in  Parkman's  mind.  This  was  the  "  His- 
tory of  the  Conspiracy  of  Pontiac."  Chronologically  this  should  have 
been  the  last  volume  in  the  series.  Parkman,  however,  appears  to  have 
written  it  first,  as  the  material  for  it  was  most  vivid  in  his  memory,  and 
probably  he  was  in  the  mood  best  adapted  for  that  portion  of  his  work. 

The  physical  difficulties  under  which  he  labored  were  always  great, 
and  at  times  almost  insupportable.  There  were  times  when  he  could  read 
only  at  intervals,  times  when  he  could  not  read  at  all.  The  bulk  of  the 
work  had  to  be  done  for  him  by  an  amanuensis,  and  many  of  the  authori- 
ties had  to  be  read  to  him,  as  he  was  unable  to  read  them  himself.  Un- 
der these  depressing  circumstances  his  courage  never  faltered,  and 
steadily  one  by  one  the  volumes  of  his  great  history  were  issued  from 
the  press.  "  Pioneers  of  France  in  the  New  World,"  in  chronological 
order  the  first  of  the  series,  was  published  in  1865;  then  at  intervals  of 
two  years  came  "  The  Jesuits  in  North  America  "  and  "  La  Salle,  and 
the  Discovery  of  the  Great  West."  Other  volumes  followed  at  intervals 
of  from  three  to  five  years  until  1892,  when  the  great  task  was  com- 
pleted. The  following  year  Mr.  Parkman  died,  at  the  age  of  seventy, 
while  still  engaged  in  revising  his  earlier  volumes,  and  happy  in  the 
consciousness  that  the  task  he  had  set  out  to  accomplish  more  than  fifty 
years  before  was  done. 

In  his  chosen  field  Parkman  has  no  rivals,  and  his  work  is  likely  to 
remain,  for  a  long  time,  the  standard  authority  on  the  period  of  which 
it  treats.  His  style  is  vivid  and  pleasing,  displaying  great  descriptive 
powers  and  skill  in  narrating  the  stirring  events  and  romantic  incidents 
of  his  history.  Of  Parkman's  other  writings,  which  are  few,  his  essay 
on  "  James  Fenimore  Cooper  "  is  one  of  the  most  interesting.  Here 
Parkman  records  some  of  his  impressions  of  the  man  who  has  given  us 
such  a  vivid  portrayal  of  the  North  American  Indian. 


436 


JAMES   FENIMORE  COOPER 

NO  American  writer  has  been  so  extensively  read  as 
James  Fenimore  Cooper.  His  novels  have  been 
translated  into  nearly  every  European  language.  Nay, 
we  are  told — but  hardly  know  how  to  believe  it — that  they 
may  be  had  duly  rendered  into  Persian  at  the  bazaars  of  Ispa- 
han. We  have  seen  some  of  them  well  thumbed  and  worn 
at  a  little  village  in  a  remote  mountainous  district  of  Sicily; 
and  in  Naples  and  Milan  the  bookstalls  bear  witness  that 
"  L'UItimo  dei  Mohecanni "  is  still  a  popular  work.  In  Eng- 
land these  American  novels  have  been  eagerly  read  and  trans- 
formed into  popular  dramas;  while  cheap  and  often  stupidly 
mutilated  editions  of  them  have  been  circulated  through  all 
her  colonies,  garrisons,  and  naval  stations,  from  New  Zealand 
to  Canada. 

Nor  is  this  widely-spread  popularity  undeserved.  Of  all 
American  writers  Cooper  is  the  most  original,  the  most  thor- 
oughly national.  His  genius  drew  aliment  from  the  soil  where 
God  had  planted  it,  and  rose  to  a  vigorous  growth,  rough  and 
gnarled,  but  strong  as  a  mountain  cedar.  His  volumes  are 
a  faithful  mirror  of  that  rude  transatlantic  nature  which  to 
European  eyes  appears  so  strange  and  new.  The  sea  and  the 
forest  have  been  the  scenes  of  his  countrymen's  most  con- 
spicuous achievements ;  and  it  is  on  the  sea  and  in  the  forest 
that  Cooper  is  most  thoroughly  at  home.  Their  spirit  in- 
spired him,  their  images  were  graven  on  his  heart;  and  the 
men  whom  their  embrace  has  nurtured,  the  sailor,  the  hunter, 
the  pioneer,  move  and  act  upon  his  pages  with  all  the  truth 
and  energy  of  real  life. 

There  is  one  great  writer  with  whom  Cooper  has  been  often 
compared,  and  the  comparison  is  not  void  of  justice ;  for 
though,  on  the  whole,  far  inferior,  there  are  certain  high  points 
of  literary  excellence  in  regard  to  which  he  may  contest  the 

437 


438  PARKMAN 

palm  with  Sir  Walter  Scott.  It  is  true  that  he  has  no  claim 
to  share  the  humor  and  pathos,  the  fine  perception  of  beauty 
and  delicacy  in  character,  which  add  such  charms  to  the  ro- 
mances of  Scott.  Nor  can  he  boast  that  compass  and  variety 
of  power  which  could  deal  alike  with  forms  of  humanity  so 
diverse ;  which  could  portray  with  equal  mastery  the  Templar 
Bois  Guilbert,  and  the  Jewess  Rebecca;  the  manly  heart  of 
Henry  Morton,  and  the  gentle  heroism  of  Jeanie  Deans.  But 
notwithstanding  this  unquestioned  inferiority  on  the  part  of 
Cooper,  there  were  marked  affinities  between  him  and  his 
great  contemporary.  Both  were  practical  men,  able  and  will- 
ing to  grapple  with  the  hard  realities  of  life.  Either  might 
have  learned  with  ease  to  lead  a  regiment,  or  command  a 
line-of-battle  ship.  Their  conceptions  of  character  were  no 
mere  abstract  ideas,  or  unsubstantial  images,  but  solid  em- 
bodiments in  living  flesh  and  blood.  Bulwer  and  Hawthorne 
— the  conjunction  may  excite  a  smile — are  writers  of  a  dif- 
ferent stamp.  Their  conceptions  are  often  exhibited  with  con- 
summate skill,  and,  in  one  of  these  examples  at  least,  with 
admirable  truthfulness ;  but  they  never  cheat  us  into  a  belief 
in  their  reality.  We  may  marvel  at  the  skill  of  the  artist,  but 
we  are  prone  to  regard  his  creations  rather  as  figments  of 
art  than  as  reproductions  of  nature — as  a  series  of  vivified 
and  animate  pictures,  rather  than  as  breathing  men  and 
women.  With  Scott  and  with  Cooper  it  is  far  otherwise. 
Dominie  Sampson  and  the  antiquary  are  as  distinct  and  fa- 
miliar to  our  minds  as  some  eccentric  acquaintance  of  our 
childhood.  If  we  met  Long  Tom  Coffin  on  the  wharf  at  New 
Bedford,  we  should  wonder  where  we  had  before  seen  that 
familiar  face  and  figure.  The  tall,  gaunt  form  of  Leather- 
stocking,  the  weather-beaten  face,  the  bony  hand,  the  cap  of 
fox-skin,  and  the  old  hunting-frock,  polished  with  long  ser- 
vice, seem  so  palpable  and  real,  that  in  some  moods  of  mind 
one  may  easily  confound  them  with  the  memories  of  his  own 
experiences.  Others  have  been  gifted  to  conceive  the  ele- 
ments of  far  loftier  character,  and  even  to  combine  these  in 
a  manner  equally  truthful;  but  few  have  rivalled  Cooper  in 
the  power  of  breathing  into  his  creations  the  breath  of  life, 
and  turning  the  phantoms  of  his  brain  into  seeming  realities. 
It  is  to  this,  in  no  small  measure,  that  he  owes  his  widely 


ESSAY  ON  JAMES  FENIMORE   COOPER  439 

spread  popularity.  His  most  successful  portraitures  are 
drawn,  it  is  true,  from  humble  walks  and  rude  associations; 
yet  they  are  instinct  with  life,  and  stamped  with  the  impress 
of  a  masculine  and  original  genius. 

The  descriptions  of  external  nature  with  which  Cooper"s 
works  abound  bear  a  certain  analogy  to  his  portraitures  of 
character.  There  is  no  glow  upon  his  pictures,  no  warm  and 
varied  coloring,  no  studied  contrast  of  light  and  shade.  Their 
virtue  consists  in  their  fidelity,  in  the  strength  with  which 
they  impress  themselves  upon  the  mind,  and  the  strange  te- 
nacity with  which  they  cling  to  the  memory.  For  our  own 
part,  it  was  many  years  since  we  had  turned  the  pages  of 
Cooper,  but  still  we  were  haunted  by  the  images  which  his 
spell  had  evoked — the  dark  gleaming  of  hill-embosomed  lakes, 
the  tracery  of  forest  boughs  against  the  red  evening  sky,  and 
the  raven  flapping  his  black  wings  above  the  carnage-field 
near  the  Horicon.  The  descriptions  have  often,  it  must  be 
confessed,  the  grave  fault  of  being  overloaded  with  detail; 
but  they  are  utterly  mistaken  who  affirm,  as  some  have  done, 
that  they  are  but  a  catalogue  of  commonplaces — mountains 
and  woods,  rivers  and  torrents,  thrown  together  as  a  matter 
of  course.  A  genuine  love  of  nature  inspired  the  artist's  pen ; 
and  they  who  cannot  feel  the  efficacy  of  its  strong  picturing 
have  neither  heart  nor  mind  for  the  grandeur  of  the  outer 
world. 

Before  proceeding,  however,  we  must  observe  that,  in  speak- 
ing of  Cooper's  writings,  we  have  reference  only  to  those 
happier  offsprings  of  his  genius  which  form  the  basis  of  his 
reputation ;  for,  of  that  numerous  progeny  which  have  of  late 
years  swarmed  from  his  pen,  we  have  never  read  one,  and 
therefore,  notwithstanding  the  ancient  usage  of  reviewers,  do 
not  think  ourselves  entitled  to  comment  upon  them. 

The  style  of  Cooper  is,  as  style  must  always  be,  in  no  small 
measure  the  exponent  of  the  author's  mind.  It  is  not  elastic 
or  varied,  and  is  certainly  far  from  elegant.  Its  best  char- 
acteristics are  a  manly  directness,  and  a  freedom  from  those 
prettinesses,  studied  turns  of  expression,  and  petty  tricks  of 
rhetoric,  which  are  the  pride  of  less  masculine  writers.  Cooper 
is  no  favorite  with  dilettanti  critics.  In  truth,  such  criticism 
does  not  suit  his  case.     He  should  be  measured  on  deeper 


440 


PARKMAN 


principles,  not  by  his  manner,  but  by  his  pith  and  substance. 
A  rough  diamond — and  he  is  one  of  the  roughest — is  worth 
more  than  a  jewel  of  paste,  though  its  facets  may  not  shine 
so  clearly. 

And  yet,  try  Cooper  by  what  test  we  may,  we  shall  discover 
in  him  grave  defects.  The  field  of  his  success  is,  after  all,  a 
narrow  one;  and  even  in  his  best  works  he  often  oversteps 
its  limits.  His  attempts  at  sentiment  are  notoriously  unsuc- 
cessful. Above  all,  when  he  aspires  to  portray  a  heroine,  no 
words  can  express  the  remarkable  character  of  the  product. 
With  simple  country  girls  he  succeeds  somewhat  better;  but, 
when  he  essays  a  higher  flight,  his  failure  is  calamitous.  The 
most  rabid  asserter  of  the  rights  of  woman  is  scarcely  more  ig- 
norant of  woman's  true  power  and  dignity.  This  is  the  more 
singular,  as  his  novels  are  very  far  from  being  void  of  feeling. 
They  seldom,  however — and  who  can  wonder  at  it? — find 
much  favor  with  women,  who  for  the  most  part  can  see  little 
in  them  but  ghastly  stories  of  shipwrecks,  ambuscades,  and 
bush-fights,  mingled  with  prolix  descriptions  and  stupid  dia- 
logues. Their  most  appreciating  readers  may  perhaps  be 
found,  not  among  persons  of  sedentary  and  studious  habits, 
but  among  those  of  a  more  active  turn,  military  officers  and 
the  like,  whose  tastes  have  not  been  trained  into  fastidious- 
ness, and  who  are  often  better  qualified  than  literary  men  to 
feel  the  freshness  and  truth  of  the  author's  descriptions. 

The  merit  of  a  novelist  is  usually  measured  less  by  his  mere 
power  of  description  than  by  his  skill  in  delineating  character. 
The  permanency  of  Cooper's  reputation  must,  as  it  seems  to 
us,  rest  upon  three  or  four  finely  conceived  and  admirably 
executed  portraits.  We  do  not  allude  to  his  Indian  characters, 
which,  it  must  be  granted,  are  for  the  most  part  either  super- 
ficially or  falsely  drawn;  while  the  long  conversations  which 
he  puts  into  their  mouths  are  as  truthless  as  they  are  tire- 
some. Such  as  they  are,  however,  they  have  been  eagerly 
copied  by  a  legion  of  the  smaller  poets  and  novel  writers  |  so 
that,  jointly  with  Thomas  Campbell,  Cooper  is  responsible 
for  the  fathering  of  those  aboriginal  heroes,  lovers,  and  sages, 
who  have  long  formed  a  petty  nuisance  in  our  literature.  The 
portraits  of  which  we  have  spoken  are  all  those  of  white  men, 
■from  humble  ranks  of  society,  yet  not  of  a  mean  or  vulgar 


ESSAY   ON  JAMES   FENIMORE   COOPER  441 

Stamp.  Conspicuous  before  them  all  stands  the  well-known 
figure  of  Leatherstocking.  The  life  and  character  of  this  per- 
sonage are  contained  in  a  series  of  five  independent  novels, 
entitled,  in  honor  of  him,  the  "  Leatherstocking  Tales." 
Cooper  has  been  censured,  and  even  ridiculed,  for  this  fre- 
quent reproduction  of  his  favorite  hero,  which,  it  is  affirmed, 
argues  poverty  of  invention ;  and  yet  there  is  not  one  of  the 
tales  in  question  with  which  we  would  willingly  part.  To 
have  drawn  such  a  character  is  in  itself  sufficient  honor ;  and, 
had  Cooper  achieved  nothing  else,  this  alone  must  have  in- 
sured him  a  wide  and  merited  renown.  There  is  something 
admirably  felicitous  in  the  conception  of  this  hybrid  offspring 
of  civilization  and  barbarism,  in  whom  uprightness,  kindli- 
ness, innate  philosophy,  and  the  truest  moral  perceptions  are 
joined  with  the  wandering  instincts  and  the  hatred  of  restraints 
which  stamp  the  Indian  or  the  Bedouin.  Nor  is  the  character 
in  the  least  unnatural.  The  white  denizens  of  the  forest  and 
the  prairie  are  often  among  the  worst  though  never  among 
the  meanest  of  mankind ;  but  it  is  equally  true  that  where 
the  moral  instincts  are  originally  strong  they  may  find  nutri- 
ment and  growth  among  the  rude  scenes  and  grand  associa- 
tions of  the  wilderness.  Men  as  true,  generous,  and  kindly 
as  Leatherstocking  may  still  be  found  among  the  perilous 
solitudes  of  the  West.  The  quiet,  unostentatious  courage  of 
Cooper's  hero  had  its  counterpart  in  the  character  of  Daniel 
Boone ;  and  the  latter  had  the  same  unaffected  love  of  nature 
which  forms  so  pleasing  a  feature  in  the  mind  of  Leather- 
stocking. 

Civilization  has  a  destr£>ying  as  well  as  a  creating  power. 
It  is  exterminating  the  buffalo  and  the  Indian,  over  whose 
fate  too  many  lamentations,  real  or  affected,  have  been  sounded 
for  us  to  renew  them  here.  It  must,  moreover,  sweep  from 
before  it  a  class  of  men,  its  own  precursors  and  pioneers,  so 
remarkable  both  in  their  virtues  and  their  faults,  that  few 
will  see  their  extinction  without  regret.  Of  these  men  Leather- 
stocking  is  the  representative;  and  though  in  him  the  traits 
of  the  individual  are  quite  as  prominent  as  those  of  the  class, 
yet  his  character  is  not  on  this  account  less  interesting,  or 
less  worthy  of  permanent  remembrance.  His  life  conveys  in 
some  sort  an  epitome  of  American  history,  during  one  of  its 


442 


PARKMAN 


most  busy  and  decisive  periods.  At  first  we  find  him  a  lonely 
young  hunter  in  what  was  then  the  wilderness  of  New  York. 
Ten  or  twelve  years  later  he  is  playing  his  part  manfully  in 
the  old  French  war.  After  the  close  of  the  Revolution  we 
meet  him  again  on  the  same  spot  where  he  was  first  intro- 
duced to  us;  but  now  everything  is  changed.  The  solitary 
margin  of  the  Otsego  Lake  is  transformed  into  the  seat  of  a 
growing  settlement,  and  the  hunter,  oppressed  by  the  re- 
straints of  society,  turns  his  aged  footsteps  westward  in  search 
of  his  congenial  solitude.  At  length  we  discover  him,  for  the 
last  time,  an  octogenarian  trapper,  far  out  on  the  prairies  of 
the  West.  It  is  clear  that  the  successive  stages  of  his  retreat 
from  society  could  not  well  be  presented  in  a  single  story,  and 
that  the  repetition  which  has  been  charged  against  Cooper 
as  a  fault  was  indispensable  to  the  development  of  his  design. 

"  The  Deerslayer,"  the  first  novel  in  the  series  of  Leather- 
stocking  tales,  seems  to  us  one  of  the  most  interesting  of 
Cooper's  productions.  He  has  chosen  for  the  scene  of  his 
story  the  Otsego  Lake,  on  whose  banks  he  lived  and  died, 
and  whose  scenery  he  has  introduced  into  three,  if  not  more, 
of  his  novels.  The  Deerslayer,  or  Leatherstocking,  here  makes 
his  first  appearance  as  a  young  man,  in  fact  scarcely  emerged 
from  boyhood,  yet  with  all  the  simplicity,  candor,  feeling,  and 
penetration  which  mark  his  riper  years.  The  old  buccaneer 
in  his  aquatic  habitation,  and  the  contrasted  characters  of  his 
two  daughters,  add  a  human  interest  to  the  scene,  for  the 
want  of  which  the  highest  skill  in  mere  landscape  painting 
cannot  compensate.  The  character  of  Judith  seems  to  us  the 
best  drawn,  and  by  far  the  most  interesting,  female  portrait 
in  any  of  Cooper's  novels  with  which  we  are  acquainted.  The 
story,  however,  is  not  free  from  the  characteristic  faults  of 
its  author.  Above  all,  it  contains,  in  one  instance  at  least, 
a  glaring  exhibition  of  his  aptitude  for  describing  horrors. 
When  he  compels  his  marvellously  graphic  pen  to  depict 
scenes  which  would  disgrace  the  shambles  or  the  dissecting- 
table,  none  can  wonder  that  ladies  and  young  clergymen  re- 
gard his  pages  with  abhorrence.  These,  however,  are  but 
casual  defects  in  a  work  which  bears  the  unmistakable  im- 
press of  genius. 

"  The  Pathfinder  "  forms  the  second  volume  of  the  series, 


ESSAY   ON  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER  443 

and  is  remarkable,  even  among  its  companions,  for  the  force 

and  distinctness  of  its  pictures.  For  ourselves — though  we 
diligently  perused  the  despatches — the  battle  of  Palo  Alto  and 
the  storming  of  Monterey  are  not  more  real  and  present  to 
our  mind  than  some  of  the  scenes  and  characters  of  "  The 
Pathfinder,"  though  we  have  not  read  it  for  nine  years — the 
little  fort  on  the  margin  of  Lake  Ontario,  the  surrounding 
woods  and  waters,  the  veteran  major  in  command,  the  treach- 
erous Scotchman,  the  dogmatic  old  sailor,  and  the  Pathfinder 
himself.  Several  of  these  scenes  are  borrowed  in  part  from 
Mrs.  Grant's  "  Memoirs  of  an  American  Lady  " ;  but,  in  bor- 
rowing. Cooper  has  transmuted  shadows  into  substance.  Mrs. 
Grant's  facts — for  as  such  we  are  to  take  them — have  an  air 
of  fiction ;  while  Cooper's  fiction  wears  the  aspect  of  solid  fact. 
His  peculiar  powers  could  not  be  better  illustrated  than  by  a 
comparison  of  the  passages  alluded  to  in  the  two  books. 

One  of  the  most  widely  known  of  Cooper's  novels  is  "  The 
Last  of  the  Mohicans,"  which  forms  the  third  volume  of  the 
series,  and  which,  with  all  the  elements  of  a  vulgar  popularity, 
combines  excellences  of  a  far  higher  order.  It  has,  neverthe- 
less, its  great  and  obtrusive  faults.  It  takes  needless  liberties 
with  history;  and,  though  it  would  be  folly  to  demand  that 
an  historical  novehst  should  always  conform  to  received  au- 
thorities, yet  it  is  certainly  desirable  that  he  should  not  un- 
necessarily set  them  at  defiance;  since  the  incidents  of  the 
novel  are  apt  to  remain  longer  in  the  memory  than  those  of 
the  less  palatable  history.  But  whatever  may  be  the  extent 
of  the  novelist's  license,  it  is  at  all  events  essential  that  his 
story  should  have  some  semblance  of  probability,  and  not  run 
counter  to  nature  and  common-sense.  In  "  The  Last  of  the 
Mohicans  "  the  machinery  of  the  plot  falls  little  short  of  ab- 
surdity. Why  a  veteran  officer,  pent  up  in  a  little  fort,  and 
hourly  expecting  to  be  beleaguered  by  a  vastly  superior  force, 
consisting  in  great  part  of  bloodthirsty  savages,  should  at  that 
particular  time  desire  or  permit  a  visit  from  his  two  daugh- 
ters, is  a  question  not  easy  to  answer.  Nor  is  the  difficulty 
lessened  when  it  is  remembered  that  the  young  ladies  are  to 
make  the  journey  through  a  wilderness  full  of  Indian  scalping- 
parties.  It  is  equally  difficult  to  see  why  the  lover  of  Alice 
should  choose,  merely  for  the  sake  of  a  romantic  ride,  to 


PARKMAN 

conduct  her  and  her  sister  by  a  circuitous  and  most  perilous 
by-path  through  the  forests,  when  they  might  more  easily 
have  gone  by  a  good  road  under  the  safe  escort  of  a  column 
of  troops  who  marched  for  the  fort  that  very  morning.  The 
story  founded  on  these  gross  inventions  is  sustained  by  vari- 
ous minor  improbabilities,  which  cannot  escape  the  reader 
unless  his  attention  is  absorbed  by  the  powerful  interest  of  the 
narrative. 

It  seems  to  us  a  defect  in  a  novel  or  a  poem  when  the 
heroine  is  compelled  to  undergo  bodily  hardship,  to  sleep  out 
at  night  in  the  woods,  drenched  by  rain,  stung  by  mosquitoes, 
and  scratched  by  briars — to  forego  all  appliances  of  the  toilet, 
and  above  all,  to  lodge  in  an  Indian  wigwam.  Women  have 
sometimes  endured  such  privation,  and  endured  it  with  for- 
titude; but  it  may  be  safely  affirmed  that,  for  the  time,  all 
grace  and  romance  were  banished  from  their  presence.  We 
read  Longfellow's  "  Evangeline  "  with  much  sympathy  in  the 
fortunes  of  the  errant  heroine,  until,  as  we  approached  the 
end  of  the  poem,  every  other  sentiment  was  lost  in  admiration 
of  the  unparalleled  extent  of  her  wanderings,  at  the  dexterity 
with  which  she  contrived  to  elude  at  least  a  dozen  tribes  of 
savages  at  that  time  in  a  state  of  war,  at  the  strength  of  her 
constitution,  and  at  her  marvellous  proficiency  in  woodcraft. 
When,  however,  we  had  followed  her  for  about  two  thousand 
miles  on  her  forest  pilgrimage,  and  reflected  on  the  figure 
she  must  have  made,  so  tattered  and  bepatched,  bedrenched 
and  bedraggled,  we  could  not  but  esteem  it  a  happy  circum- 
stance that  she  failed,  as  she  did,  to  meet  her  lover;  since, 
had  he  seen  her  in  such  plight,  every  spark  of  sentiment  must 
have  vanished  from  his  breast,  and  all  the  romance  of  the 
poem  been  ingloriously  extinguished.  With  Cooper's  hero- 
ines, Cora  and  Alice,  the  case  is  not  so  hard.  Yet,  as  it  does 
not  appear  that,  on  a  journey  of  several  weeks,  they  were  per- 
mitted to  carry  so  much  as  a  valise  or  a  carpet-bag,  and  as  we 
are  expressly  told  that,  on  several  occasions,  they  dropped 
by  the  wayside  their  gloves,  veils,  and  other  useful  articles  of 
apparel,  it  is  certain  that  at  the  journey's  end  they  must  have 
presented  an  appearance  more  calculated  to  call  forth  a  Chris- 
tian sympathy  than  any  emotion  of  a  more  romantic  nature. 

In  respect  to  the  delineation  of  character,  "  The  Last  of 


ESSAY  ON  JAMES  FENIMORE  COOPER  44^ 

the  Mohicans  "  is  surpassed  by  several  other  works  of  the 
author.  Its  distinguishing  merit  Hes  in  its  descriptions  of 
scenery  and  action.  Of  the  personages  who  figure  in  it,  one 
of  the  most  interesting  is  the  young  Mohican,  Uncas,  who, 
however,  does  not  at  all  resemble  a  genuine  Indian.  Magna, 
the  villain  of  the  story,  is  a  less  untruthful  portrait.  Cooper 
has  been  criticised  for  representing  him  as  falHng  in  love  with 
Cora;  and  the  criticism  is  based  on  the  alleged  ground  that 
passions  of  this  kind  are  not  characteristic  of  the  Indian.  This 
may,  in  some  qualified  sense,  be  true ;  but  is  well  known  that 
Indians,  in  real  life  as  well  as  in  novels,  display  a  peculiar 
partiality  for  white  women,  on  the  same  principle  by  which 
Italians  are  prone  to  admire  a  light  complexion,  while  the 
Swedes  regard  a  brunette  with  highest  esteem.  Cora  was 
the  very  person  to  fascinate  an  Indian.  The  coldest  warrior 
would  gladly  have  received  her  into  his  lodge,  and  promoted 
her  to  be  his  favorite  wife,  wholly  dispensing,  in  honor  of  her 
charms,  with  flagellation  or  any  of  the  severer  marks  of  con- 
jugal displeasure. 

The  character  of  Hawkeye  or  Leatherstocking  is,  in  '*  The 
Last  of  the  Mohicans  "  as  elsewhere,  clearly  and  admirably 
drawn.  He  often  displays,  however,  a  weakness  which  ex- 
cites the  impatience  of  the  reader — an  excessive  and  ill-timed 
loquacity.  When,  for  example,  in  the  fight  at  Glenn's  Falls, 
he  and  Major  Heywood  are  crouching  in  the  thicket,  watch- 
ing the  motions  of  four  Indians,  whose  heads  are  visible  above 
a  log  at  a  little  distance,  and  who,  in  the  expression  of  Hawk- 
eye  himself,  are  gathering  for  a  rush,  the  scout  employs  the 
time  in  dilating  upon  the  properties  of  the  "  long-barrelled, 
soft-metalled  rifle."  The  design  is,  no  doubt,  to  convey  an 
impression  of  his  coolness  in  moments  of  extreme  danger; 
but,  under  such  circumstances,  the  bravest  man  would  judge 
it  the  part  of  good  sense  to  use  his  eyes  rather  than  his  tongue. 
Men  of  Hawkeye's  class,  however  talkative  they  may  be  at 
the  camp-fire,  are  remarkable  for  preserving  a  close  silence 
while  engaged  in  the  active  labors  of  their  calling. 

It  is  easy  to  find  fault  with  "  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans," 
but  it  is  far  from  easy  to  rival  or  even  approach  its  excel- 
lences. The  book  has  the  genuine  game  flavor;  it  exhales 
the  odors  of  the  pine-woods  and  the  freshness  of  the  moun- 


446  PARKMAN 

tain  wind.  Its  dark  and  rugged  scenery  rises  as  distinctly 
on  the  eye  as  the  images  of  the  painter's  canvas,  or  rather  as 
the  reflection  of  nature  herself.  But  it  is  not  as  the  mere  ren- 
dering of  material  forms  that  these  wood-paintings  are  most 
highly  to  be  esteemed;  they  breathe  the  sombre  poetry  of 
solitude  and  danger.  In  these  achievements  of  his  art,  Cooper, 
we  think,  has  no  equal,  unless  it  may  be  the  author  of  that 
striking  romance,  "  Wacousta ;  or,  The  Prophecy,"  whose  fine 
powers  of  imagination  are,  however,  even  less  under  the  guid- 
ance of  a  just  taste  than  those  of  the  American  novelist. 

The  most  obvious  merit  of  "  The  Last  of  the  Mohicans  " 
consists  in  its  descriptions  of  action,  in  the  power  with  which 
the  author  absorbs  the  reader's  sympathies,  and  leads  him, 
as  it  were,  to  play  a  part  in  the  scene.  One  reads  the  ac- 
counts of  a  great  battle — aside  from  any  cause  or  principle 
at  issue — with  the  same  kind  of  interest  with  which  he  beholds 
the  grand  destructive  phenomena  of  nature,  a  tempest  at  sea, 
or  a  tornado  in  the  tropics;  yet  with  a  feeling  far  more  in- 
tense, since  the  conflict  is  not  a  mere  striving  of  insensate 
elements,  but  of  living  tides  of  human  wrath  and  valor.  With 
descriptions  of  petty  skirmishes  or  single  combats  the  feeling 
is  of  a  different  kind.  The  reader  is  enlisted  in  the  fray — a 
partaker,  as  it  were,  in  every  thought  and  movement  of  the 
combatants,  in  the  alternations  of  fear  and  triumph,  the  prompt 
expedient,  the  desperate  resort,  the  palpitations  of  human 
weakness,  or  the  courage  that  faces  death.  Of  this  species 
of  description,  the  scene  of  the  conflict  at  Glenn's  Falls  is  an 
admirable  example,  unsurpassed,  we  think,  even  by  the  com- 
bat of  Balfour  and  Bothwell,  or  by  any  other  passage  of  the 
kind  in  the  novels  of  Scott.  The  scenery  of  the  fight,  the 
foaming  cataract,  the  little  islet  with  its  stout-hearted  defend- 
ers, the  precipices  and  the  dark  pine-woods,  add  greatly  to 
the  efifect.  The  scene  is  conjured  before  the  reader's  eye,  not 
as  a  vision  or  a  picture,  but  like  the  tangible  presence  of  rock, 
river,  and  forest.  His  very  senses  seem  conspiring  to  deceive 
him.  He  seems  to  feel  against  his  cheek  the  wind  and  spray 
of  the  cataract,  and  hear  its  sullen  roar,  amid  the  yells  of  the 
assailants  and  the  sharp  crack  of  the  answering  rifle.  The 
scene  of  the  strife  is  pointed  out  to  travellers  as  if  this  fictitious 
combat  were  a  real  event  of  history.     Mills,  factories,  and 


ESSAY   ON  JAMES  FENIMORE   COOPER  447 

bridges  have  marred  the  native  wildness  of  the  spot,  and  a 
village  has  usurped  the  domain  of  the  forest;  yet  still  those 
foaming  waters  and  black  sheets  of  limestone  rock  are  clothed 
with  all  the  interest  of  an  historic  memory;  and  the  cicerone 
of  the  place  can  show  the  caves  where  the  affrighted  sisters 
took  refuge,  the  point  where  the  Indians  landed,  and  the  rock 
whence  the  despairing  Huron  was  flung  into  the  abyss.  Nay, 
if  the  lapse  of  a  few  years  has  not  enlightened  his  understand- 
ing, the  guide  would  as  soon  doubt  the  reality  of  the  battle  of 
Saratoga  as  that  of  Hawkeye's  fight  with  the  Mingoes. 

"  The  Pioneers,"  the  fourth  volume  of  the  series,  is,  in  sev- 
eral respects,  the  best  of  Cooper's  works.  Unlike  some  of 
its  companions,  it  bears  every  mark  of  having  been  written 
from  the  results  of  personal  experience ;  and,  indeed.  Cooper 
is  well  known  to  have  drawn  largely  on  the  recollections  of 
his  earlier  years  in  the  composition  of  this  novel.  The  char- 
acters are  full  of  vitality  and  truth,  though,  in  one  or  two 
instances,  the  excellence  of  the  delineation  is  impaired  by  a 
certain  taint  of  vulgarity.  Leatherstocking,  as  he  appears  in 
"  The  Pioneers,"  must  certainly  have  had  his  living  original 
in  some  gaunt,  gray-haired  old  woodsman,  to  whose  stories 
of  hunts  and  Indian  fights  the  author  may  perhaps  have  lis- 
tened in  his  boyhood  with  rapt  ears,  unconsciously  garnering 
up  in  memory  the  germs  which  time  was  to  develop  into  a 
rich  harvest.  The  scenes  of  the  Christmas  turkey-shooting, 
the  fish-spearing  by  firelight  on  Otsego  Lake,  the  rescue  from 
the  panther,  and  the  burning  of  the  woods,  are  all  inimitable 
in  their  way.  Of  all  Cooper's  works,  "  The  Pioneers  "  seems 
to  us  most  likely  to  hold  a  permanent  place  in  literature,  for 
it  preserves  a  vivid  reflection  of  scenes  and  characters  which 
will  soon  have  passed  away. 

"  The  Prairie,"  the  last  of  the  "  Leatherstocking  Tales,"  is 
a  novel  of  far  inferior  merit.  The  story  is  very  improbable, 
and  not  very  interesting.  The  pictures  of  scenery  are  less 
true  to  nature  than  in  the  previous  volumes,  and  seem  to  indi- 
cate that  Cooper  had  little  or  no  personal  acquaintance  with 
the  remoter  parts  of  the  West.  The  book,  however,  has  sev- 
eral passages  of  much  interest,  one  of  the  best  of  which  is  the 
scene  in  which  the  aged  trapper  discovers,  in  the  person  of  a 
young  officer,  the  grandson  of  Duncan  Heywood  and  Alice 


44^  parkmAi4 

Munro,  whom,  half  a  century  before,  he  had  protected  in  such 
imminent  jeopardy  on  the  rocks  of  Glenn's  Falls  and  among 
the  mountains  of  Lake  George.  The  death  of  Abiram  White 
is  very  striking,  though  reminding  one  of  a  similar  scene  in 
"  The  Spy."  The  grand  deformity  in  the  story  is  the  wretched 
attempt  at  humor  in  the  person  of  Dr.  Obed  Battius.  David 
Gamut,  in  "  The  Mohicans,"  is  bad  enough ;  but  Battius  out- 
Herods  Herod,  and  great  must  be  the  merit  of  the  book  which 
one  such  incubus  would  not  sink  beyond  redemption. 

The  novel  which  first  brought  the  name  of  Cooper  into 
distinguished  notice  was  "  The  Spy  " ;  and  this  book,  which 
gave  him  his  earliest  reputation,  will  contribute  largely  to 
preserve  it.  The  story  is  full  of  interest,  and  the  character  of 
Harvey  Birch  is  drawn  with  singular  skill. 

"  The  Pilot "  is  usually  considered  the  best  of  Cooper's  sea- 
tales.  It  is  in  truth  a  masterpiece  of  his  genius  ;  and  although 
the  reader  is  apt  to  pass  with  impatience  over  the  long  con- 
versations among  the  ladies  at  Saint  Ruth's,  and  between  Alice 
Dunscombe  and  the  disguised  Paul  Jones,  yet  he  is  amply 
repaid  when  he  follows  the  author  to  his  congenial  element. 
The  description  of  the  wreck  of  the  Ariel,  and  the  death  of 
Long  Tom  Coffin,  can  scarcely  be  spoken  of  in  terms  of  too 
much  admiration.  Long  Tom  is  to  Cooper's  sea-tales  what 
Leatherstocking  is  to  the  novels  of  the  forest — a  conception 
so  original  and  forcible  that  posterity  will  hardly  suffer  it  to 
escape  from  remembrance.  "  The  Red  Rover,"  "  The  Water- 
Witch,"  and  the  remainder  of  the  sea-tales,  are  marked  with 
the  same  excellences  and  defects  with  the  novels  already  men- 
tioned, and  further  comments  would  therefore  be  useless. 

The  recent  death  of  the  man  who  had  achieved  so  much  in 
the  cause  of  American  literature  has  called  forth,  as  it  should 
have  done,  a  general  expression  of  regret;  and  the  outcries, 
not  unprovoked,  which  of  late  have  been  raised  against  him, 
are  drowned  in  the  voice  of  sorrow.  The  most  marked  and 
original  of  American  writers  has  passed  from  among  us.  It 
was  an  auspicious  moment  when  his  earlier  works  first  saw 
the  light ;  for  their  promise  in  their  rude  vigor — a  good  hope 
that  from  such  rough  beginnings  the  country  might  develop 
a  Hterary  progeny  which,  taking  lessons  in  the  graces,  and 
refining  with  the  lapse  of  years,  might  one  day  do  honor  to 


ESSAY   ON  JAMES  FENIMORE   COOPER  449 

its  parentage ;  and  when  the  chastened  genius  of  Bryant  arose 
it  seemed  that  the  fulfilment  of  such  a  hope  was  not  far  re- 
mote. But  this  fair  promise  has  failed,  and  to  this  hour  the 
purpose,  the  energy,  the  passion  of  America  have  never  found 
their  adequate  expression  on  the  printed  page.  The  number 
of  good  writers  truly  American,  by  which  we  mean  all  those 
who  are  not  imitators  of  foreign  modes,  might  be  counted  on 
the  fingers  of  the  two  hands ;  nor  are  the  writers  of  this  small 
class,  not  excepting  even  Bryant  himself,  in  any  eminent  de- 
gree the  favorites  of  those  among  their  countrymen  who  make 
pretensions  to  taste  and  refinement.  As  in  life  and  manners 
the  American  people  seem  bent  on  aping  the  polished  luxury 
of  another  hemisphere,  so  likewise  they  reserve  their  enthusi- 
asm and  their  purses  for  the  honeyed  verse  and  sugared  prose 
of  an  emasculate  and  supposititious  literature. 

Some  French  writer — Chateaubriand,  we  believe — observes 
that  the  only  portion  of  the  American  people  who  exhibit 
any  distinctive  national  character  are  backwoodsmen  of  the 
West.  The  remark  is  not  strictly  true.  The  whole  merchant 
marine,  from  captains  to  cabin-boys,  the  lumbermen  of  Maine, 
the  farmers  of  New  England,  and  indeed  all  the  laboring  popu- 
lation of  the  country,  not  of  foreign  origin,  are  marked  with 
strong  and  peculiar  traits.  But  when  we  ascend  into  the  edu- 
cated and  polished  classes  these  peculiarities  are  smoothed 
away,  until,  in  many  cases,  they  are  invisible.  An  educated 
Englishman  is  an  Englishman  still;  an  educated  Frenchman 
is  often  intensely  French;  but  an  educated  American  is  apt 
to  have  no  national  character  at  all.  The  condition  of  the 
literature  of  the  country  is,  as  might  be  expected,  in  close  ac- 
cordance with  these  peculiarities  of  its  society.  With  but  few 
exceptions,  the  only  books  which  reflect  the  national  mind 
are  those  which  emanate  from,  or  are  adapted  to,  the  un- 
schooled classes  of  the  people — such,  for  example,  as  Dr. 
Bird's  "  Nick  of  the  Woods,"  "  The  Life  of  David  Crockett," 
"  The  Big  Bear  of  Arkansas,"  with  its  kindred  legends,  and, 
we  may  add,  the  earlier  novels  of  Cooper.  In  the  politer  walks 
of  literature  we  find  much  grace  of  style,  but  very  little  orig- 
inality of  thought — productions  which  might  as  readily  be 
taken  for  the  work  of  an  Englishman  as  of  an  American. 

This  lack  of  originality  has  been  loudly  complained  of,  but 
29 


45° 


PARKMAN 


it  seems  to  us  inevitable  under  the  circumstances.  The  heaUh- 
ful  growth  of  the  intellect,  whether  national  or  individual,  like 
healthful  growth  of  every  other  kind,  must  proceed  from  the 
action  of  internal  energies,  not  from  foreign  aid.  Too  much 
assistance,  too  many  stimulants,  weaken  instead  of  increasing 
it.  The  cravings  of  the  American  mind,  eager  as  they  are, 
are  amply  supplied  by  the  copious  stream  of  English  current 
literature.  Thousands,  nay,  millions  of  readers  and  writers 
drink  from  this  bounteous  source,  and  feed  on  this  foreign 
aliment,  till  the  whole  complexion  of  their  thoughts  is  tinged 
with  it,  and  by  a  sort  of  necessity  they  think  and  write  at  sec- 
ond hand.  If  this  transatlantic  supply  were  completely  cut 
off,  and  the  nation  abandoned  to  its  own  resources,  it  would 
eventually  promote,  in  a  high  degree,  the  development  of  the 
national  intellect.  The  vitality  and  force,  which  are  abundantly 
displayed  in  every  department  of  active  life,  would  soon  find 
their  way  into  a  higher  channel,  to  meet  the  new  and  clamor- 
ous necessity  for  mental  food ;  and,  in  the  space  of  a  genera- 
tion, the  oft-repeated  demand  for  an  original  literature  would 
be  fully  satisfied. 

In  respect  to  every  department  of  active  life,  the  United 
States  are  fully  emancipated  from  their  ancient  colonial  sub- 
jection. They  can  plan,  invent,  and  achieve  for  themselves, 
and  this,  too,  with  a  commanding  success.  But  in  all  the 
liner  functions  of  thought,  in  all  matters  of  literature  and  taste, 
we  are  essentially  provincial.  England  once  held  us  in  a  state 
of  political  dependency.  That  day  is  past ;  but  she  still  holds 
us  in  an  intellectual  dependency  far  more  complete.  Her 
thoughts  become  our  thoughts,  by  a  process  unconscious  but 
inevitable.  She  caters  for  our  mind  and  fancy  with  a  liberal 
hand.  We  are  spared  the  labor  of  self-support;  but  by  the 
universal  law,  applicable  to  nations  no  less  than  to  individuals, 
we  are  weakened  by  the  want  of  independent  exercise.  It  is 
a  matter  of  common  remark  that  the  most  highly  educated 
classes  among  us  are  far  from  being  the  most  efficient  either 
in  thought  or  action.  The  vigorous  life  of  the  nation  springs 
from  the  deep  rich  soil  at  the  bottom  of  society.  Its  men  of 
greatest  influence  are  those  who  have  studied  men  before  they 
studied  books,  and  who,  by  hard  battling  with  the  world,  and 
boldly  following  out  the  bent  of  their  native  genius,  have 


ESSAY  ON  JAMES  FENIMORE   COOPER  451 

hewed  their  own  way  to  weahh,  station,  or  knowledge  from 
the  ploughshare  or  the  forecastle.  The  comparative  short- 
comings of  the  best  educated  among  us  may  be  traced  to 
several  causes ;  but,  as  we  are  constrained  to  think,  they  are 
mainly  owing  to  the  fact  that  the  highest  civilization  of  Amer- 
ica is  communicated  from  without  instead  of  being  developed 
from  within,  and  is  therefore  nerveless  and  unproductive. 


"OUR    BEST    SOCIETY 


BY 


GEORGE    WILLIAM    CURTIS 


GEORGE   WILLIAM    CURTIS 
1824 — 1892 

George  William  Curtis,  born  February  24,  1824,  was  a  descendant 
of  one  of  the  oldest  New  England  families.  After  receiving  his  early 
education  in  his  native  town  he  was  sent  to  a  school  in  Jamaica  Plain, 
Massachusetts.  When  his  father  moved  to  New  York  in  1838  young 
Curtis  entered  the  counting-room  of  a  commercial  house  to  fit  himself 
for  a  business  career.  Commercial  pursuits  proving  distasteful  to  him 
he,  in  company  with  his  elder  brother,  in  1842  joined  the  Brook  Farm 
Association  in  West  Roxbury,  Massachusetts.  Here  he  came  into 
friendly  relations  with  Thoreau,  Hawthorne,  George  Ripley,  Margaret 
Fuller,  and  Emerson.  The  brothers  spent  eighteen  months  in  study 
and  tilling  the  soil  and  another  year  in  similar  pursuits  with  a  farmer 
near  Concord.  In  1846  Curtis  went  abroad  and  after  spending  two 
years  in  Italy  attended  lectures  at  the  University  of  Berlin.  Another 
two  years  were  spent  in  travelling  in  Egypt  and  Syria.  On  his  return 
to  America,  in  1850,  he  became  a  member  of  the  editorial  staff  of  the 
New  York  "  Tribune,"  of  which  his  friend  George  Ripley  was  at  that 
time  the  literary  editor.  Curtis  published  '*  Nile  Notes  of  a  Howadji " 
in  1851  and  "The  Howadji  in  Syria"  in  1852,  both  interesting  books 
of  travel.  "  Lotus-Eating,"  a  series  of  letters  written  to  the  "  Tribune  " 
while  abroad,  were  collected  and  brought  out  in  book  form  shortly 
afterwards. 

Curtis,  who  had  by  this  time  acquired  considerable  literary  reputa- 
tion, was  now  invited  to  join  Parke  Godwin  and  Charles  F.  Briggs  in 
the  editorship  of  "  Putnam's  Monthly,"  when  it  was  first  issued  in  1853. 
By  a  series  of  essays,  including  "  Our  Best  Society,"  written  in  a 
gatirical  vein,  he  contributed  much  to  the  popularity  and  success  of 
this  publication.  In  1857  the  publishers  of  "  Putnam's "  failed  in 
business  and  Curtis,  although  he  was  under  no  legal  obligation  to  the 
firm,  assumed  personally  a  large  share  of  the  indebtedness  in  order  to 
save  the  creditors  from  pecuniary  loss.  For  twenty  years  he  labored 
incessantly  to  lift  the  self-imposed  burden,  deriving  his  chief  income 
by  lecturing.  The  Harpers  had,  in  the  mean  time,  published  his  books 
on  travel,  and  John  Harper  was  so  favorably  impressed  with  his  ability 
as  a  writer  that  he  engaged  him  to  edit  the  department  of  the  "  Easy 
Chair  "  in  "  Harper's  New  Monthly  Magazine."  It  is  in  this  capacity 
that  he  developed  and  perfected  a  prose  style  which  entitles  him  to  a 
place  in  the  foremost  rank  of  American  writers.  In  i860  he  assumed 
the  editorial  direction  of  **  Harper's  Weekly,"  a  position  which,  in 
conjunction  with  his  department  in  "  Harper's  Magazine,"  he  retained 
until  his  death. 

Of  his  political  career,  though  Curtis  was  prominent  on  many  occa- 
sions and  rendered  excellent  services  to  his  party,  we  need  make  but 
cursory  mention.  He  never  accepted  ofTice.  His  name  is  closely  con- 
nected with  the  movement  of  civil  service  reform,  and  it  was  under 
his  guidance  that  the  Social  Reform  League  was  founded  in  1881. 
For  many  years,  especially  before  and  after  the  war,  Curtis  was  a 
prominent  and  popular  lecturer.  His  manner  as  a  speaker  was  pe- 
culiarly attractive,  as  his  delivery  was  not  fiery  nor  impassionate,  but 
rather  graceful  and  winning,  with  a  touch  of  satire  and  of  humor.  His 
voice  was  musical  and  pleasing,  his  bearing  in  public  always  dignified. 
By  his  many  speeches  on  public  occasions,  notably  his  eulogies  on 
Sumner,  Brooks,  Bryant,  and  his  friend,  Lowell,  he  will  long  be  re- 
membered by  those  who  heard  him.  He  died  at  his  Staten  Island  home 
on  August  31,  1892. 

454 


"OUR  BEST  SOCIETY"* 

_i  ■■ "" .1.   I,  I  ■■ 

IF  gilt  were  only  gold,  or  sugar-candy  common-sense,  what 
a  fine  thing  our  society  would  be !  If  to  lavish  money  upon 
oh  jets  de  vertu,  to  wear  the  most  costly  dresses,^aiid-always 
to  have  them  cut  in  the  height  of  fashion ;  to  build  houses  thirty 
feet  broad,  as  if  they  were  palaces ;  to  furnish  them  with  all  the 
Ijixurious  devices  of  Parisian  genius ;  to  give  superb  banquets, 
at  which  your  guests  laugh,  and  which  make  you  miserable ;  to 
drive  a  fine  carriage  and  ape  European  liveries,  and  crests,  .and 
cpats-of-arms ;  to  resent  the  friendly  advances  of  your  baker's 
wife,  and  the  lady  of  your  butcher  (you  being  yourself  a  cob- 
bler's daughter)  ;  to  talk  much  of  the  "  old  families  "  and  of 
your  aristocratic  foreign  friends ;  to-  -despise  labor ;  to  prate  of 
"  good  society  " ;  to  travesty  and  parody,  in  every  conceivable 
way,  a  society  which  we  know  only  in  books  and  by  the  super- 
ficial observation  of  foreign  travel,  which  arises  out  of  a  social 
organization  entirely  unknown  to  us,  and  which  is  opposed  to 
our  fundamental  and  essential  principles^*  if  all  these  were  fine, 
what  a  prodigiously  fine  society  would  ours  be ! 

This  occurred  to  us  upon  lately  receiving  a  card  of  invitation 
to  a  brilliant  ball.-  We  were  quietly  ruminating  over  our  even- 
ing fire,  with  Disraeli's  Wellington  speech,  "  all  tears,^^'itr:(:)ur 
hands,  with  the  account  of  a  great  man's  burial,  and  a  little 
man's  triumph  across  the  channel.  S0~ma«y-^reat  men -gene, 
\ye  mused,  and  such  great  crises  impending !  This  democratic 
movement  in  Europe;  Kos&uth  and  Mazzini  waiting  for  the 
moment  to  give  the  word ;  the  Russian  bear  watchfully  sucking 
hiis  paws ;  the  Napolemiifc  empire  redivivus ;  Cuba,  and  annexa- 
tion, and  slavery ;  California  and  Australia,  and  the  consequent 
considerations  of  political  economy;  dear  me!  exclaimed  we, 
putting  on  a  fresh  hodful  of  coal,  we  must  look  a  little  into  the 
state  of  parties. 

As- we  put  down  the  coal-scuttle,  there  was  a  knock  at  the 

*  This  essay  was  originally  published  in  "  Putnam's  Magazine  "  for  February,  1853. 

455 


456  CURTIS 

door.  We  said,  "  Come  in,"  and  in  came  a  neat  Alhambra- 
watered  envelope,  containing  the  announcement  that  the  queen 
of  fashion  was  "  at  home  "  that  evening  week.  Later  in  the 
evening,  came  a  friend  to  smoke  a  cigar.  The  card  was  lying 
upon  the  table,  and  he  read  it  with  eagerness.  "  You'll  go,  of 
course,"  said  he,  "  for  you  will  meet  all  the  '  best  society.'  " 

Shall  we  truly  ?  Shall  we  really  see  the  "  best  society  of  the 
city,"  the  picked  flower  of  its  genius,  character,  and  beauty? 
What  makes  the  "  best  society  "  of  men  and  women  ?  T^ 
noblest^pecirnejQs^ ^^c^,  of^course.  The  men  who  mould  the 
time,  who  refresh  our  faith  in  heroism  and  virtue,  who-irrake^ 
Plato,  Tind  Ze^ic^and  Shakespeare,  and  all  Shakespeare's  gentle- 
men, possible  again.  The  women,  whose  beauty,  and  sweet- 
ness, and  dignity,  and  high  accomplishment,  and  grace,  make 
us  understand  the  Greek  mythology,  and*weaken  our  desire  to 
have  some  glimpse  of  the  most  famous  women  of  history.  The 
"  best  society  "  is  that  in  which  the  virtues  are  the  most  shin- 
ing, which  is  the  most  charitable,  forgiving,  long-suffering, 
modest,  and  innocent.  The  "  best  society  "  is,  by  its  very  name, 
that  in  which  there  is  the  least  hypocrisy  and  insincerity  of  all ' 
kinds,  which  recoils  from,  aad..,i>lasts,  artificiality,  which  is 
anxious  to  be  all  that  it  is  possible  to  be,  and  which  sternly 
reprobates  all  shallow  pretence,  all  coxcombery  and  foppery, 
and  insists  upon  simplicity  as  the  infallible  characteristic  of  true 
worth.  That  is  the  ''  best  society  "  which  comprises  the  best 
men  and  women. 

Had  we  recently  arrived  from  the  moon,  we  might,  upon 
hearing  that  we  were  to  meet  the  "  best  society,"  have  fancied 
that  we  were  about  to  enjoy  an  opportunity  not  to  be  overvalued. 
But  unfortunately  we  were  not  so  freshly  arriyed.  We  had  re- 
ceived other  cards,  and  had  perfected  out^  toilette  many  times,^ 
to  meet  this  same  society,  so  magnificently  described,  and  had 
found  it  the  least  "best"  of  all.  Who  compose- it ?  Whom 
shall  we  meet  if  we  go  to  this  ball  ?  We  shall  meet  three  classes 
of  persons:  first,  those  who  are  rich,  and  who  have  all  that 
money  can  buy;  second,  those  who  belong  to  what  are  tech- 
nically called  "  the  good  old  families,"  because  some  ancestor 
was  a  man  of  mark  in  the  State  or  country,  or  was  very  rich, 
and  has  kept  the  fortune  in  the  family ;  and,  thirdly,  a  swarm  of 
youths  who  can  dance  dexterously,  and  who  are  invited  for  that 


V 


"OUR  BEST  SOCIETY"  .  457 

purpose.  Now  these  are  all  arbitrary  and  factitioits  distinc- 
tions upon  which  to  found  so  profound  a  social  difference  as 
that  which  exists-frr-Amefiean^or,-  at  least  in  New  York,  society. 
First,  as  a  general  rule,  the  rich  men  of  every  community,  who 
make  their  own  money,  are  not  the  most  generally  intelligent 
and  cultivated.  They  have  a  shrewd  talent  which  secures  a 
fortune,  and  wi«eh  keeps  them  closely  at  the  work  of  amassing 
fronfMJiek-  youngest  years  until  they  are  old.  They  are  sturdy 
men  of  simple  tastes  often.  Sometimes,  though  rarely,  very 
generous,  but  necessarily  with  an  altogether  false  and  exagger — 
ated  idea  of  the  importance  of  money.  They  are  a  rather  rough, 
unsympathetic,  and,  perhaps,  selfish  class,  who,  themselves,  de- 
spise purple  and  fine  linen,  and  still  prefer  a  cot-bed  and  a  bare 
room,  although  they  may  be  worth  millions.  But  they  are  mar- 
ried to  scheming,  or  ambitious,  or  disappointed  women,  whose 
life  is  a  prolonged  pageant,  and  they  are  dragged  hither  and 
thi^riex^m-ki-are  hhd  of  their  golden  blood,  and  forced  into  a 
posftiojiihjey  do  not  covet  and  which  they  despise.  Then  there 
are  the  inheritors  of  wealth.  Howjmany  of  them  inherit  the 
valiant  genius  and  hard  frugality  which  built  up  their  fortunes ; 
how  many  acknowledge  the  stern  and  heavy  responsibility  of 
their  opportunities ;  how  many  refuse  to  dream  their  lives  away 
in  a  Sybarite  luxury ;  how  many  are  smitten  with  the  lofty  am- 
bition of  achieving  an  enduring  name  by  works  of  a  permanent 
value;  how  many  do  not  dwindle  into  dainty  dilettanti,  and 
dilute  their  manhood  with  factitious  sentimentality  instead  of 
a  hearty,  human  sympathy\  how  many  are  i^t  satisfied  with 
having  the  fastest  horses  and  the  "  crackest "  carriages,  and  an 
unlimited^ war drobCj  and  a  weak  aflFectation  and  puerile  imita- 
tion of  foreign  life  ? 

And  who  are  these  of  our  secondly,  these  "  old  families  "  ? 
The  spirit  of  our  time  and  of  our  country  knows  no  such  thmg, 
but  the  habitue  of  "  society  "  hears  constantly  of  "  a  good  fam- 
ily." It  means  simply  the  collective  mass  of  children,  grand- 
children, nephews,  nieces,  and  descendants,  of  some  man  who 
deserved  well  of  his  country,  and  whom  his  country  honors. 
But  sad  is  the  heritage  of  a  great  name !  /  The  son  of  Burke  will 
inevitably  be  measured  by  Burke.  Thfe  niece  of  Pope  must 
show  some  superiority  to  other  women  (so  to  speak),  or  her 
equality  is  inferiority.     The.ieeling  of  men  attributes  some 


458  '  CURTIS 

magical  charm  to  blood,  and  we  look  to  see  the  daughter  of 
Helen  as  fair  as  her  mother,  and  the  son  of  Shakespeare  musical 
as  his  sire.  If  they  are  not  so,  if  they  are  merely  names,  and 
common  persons — if  there  is  no  Burke,  nor  Shakespeare,  nor 
Washington,  nor  Bacon,  in  their  words,  or  actions,  or  lives,  then 
we  must  pity  them,  and  pass  gently  on,  not  upbraiding  them, 
but  regretting  that  it  is  one  of  the  laws  of  greatness  that  it  dwin- 
dles all  things  in  its  vicinity,  which  would  otherwise  show  large 
enough.  Nay,\in  our  regard  for  the  great  man,  we  may  even 
admit  to  a  compassionate  honor,  as  pensioners  upon  our  charity, 
those  who  bear  and  transmit  his  name.  But  if  these  heirs 
should  presume  upon  that  fame,  and  claim  any  precedence  of 
living  men  and  women  because  their  dead  grandfather  was  a 
hero — they  must  be  shown  the  door  directly.  We  should  dread 
to  be  born  a  Percy,  or  a  Colonna,  or  a  Bonaparte.  We  should 
not  like  to  be  the  second  Duke  of  Wellington,  nor  Charles  Dick- 
ens, Jr.  It  is  a  terrible  thing,  one  would  say,  to  a  mind  of 
honorable  feeling,  to  be  pointed  out  as  somebody's  son,  or  uncle^ 
i)r  granddaughter,  as  ifjhe. excellence  were  all  derived,  ^t  must 
be  a  little  humiliating  to  reflect  that  if  your  great  uncle  had*^not 
been  somebody,  you  would  be  nobody — that,  in  fact,  you  are 
only  a  name,  and  that,  if  you  should  consent  to  change  it  for  the 
sake  of  a  fortune,  as  is  sometimes  done,  you  would  cease  to  be 
anything  but  a  rich. man.  r'  My  father  was  President,  or  Gov- 
ernor of  the  State,"  some"  pompous  man  may  say.  But,  by 
Jupiter !  king  of  gods  and  men,  what  are  you  ?  is  the  instinctive 
response.  Do  you  not  see,  our  pompous  friend,  that  you  are 
only  pointing  your  own  unimportance?  If  your  father  was 
Governor  of  the  State,  what  right  have  you  to  use  that  fact  only 
to  fatten  your  self-conceit  ?  Take  care,  good  care ;  for  whether 
you  say  it  by  your  lips  or  by  your  life,  that  withering_res|iQllse. 
jLwaits..  you— "  then  what  are  you  ?"/^  If  your  ancestor  was 
great,  you  ar^  under  bonds  to  greatness.  If  you  are  small, 
make  haste  to  learn  it  betimes,  and,  thanking  heaven  that  your 
name  has  been  made  illustrious,  retire  into  a  corner  and  keep  it, 
at  least,  untarnished. 

Our  thirdly  is  a  class  made  by  sundry  French  tailors,  boot- 
makers, dancing-masters,  and  Mr.  Brown..  They  are  a  corfrs 
de  ballet,  for  the  use  of  private  entertainments.  They  are  fos- 
tered by  society  for  the  use  of  young  debutantes,  and  hardier 


"OUR  BEST   SOCIETY"  459 

damsels,  wha.have...dared  two  or  three  ycaro -of-^be-i^^ii^atv" 
BClka.  They  are  cultivated  for  their  heels,  not  their  heads, 
'their  life  begins  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening,  and  lasts  until 
four  in  the  morning.  They  go  home  and  sleep  until  nine ;  then 
they  reel,  sleepy,  to  G0unting4iatwes  and  offices,  and  joze  on 
desks  until  dinner-time,  f  Or,  unable  to  do  that,  they  are 
actively  at  Work  alFHa^,  and  their  cheeks  grow  pale,  and  their 
lips  thin,  and  their  eyes  blood-shot  and  hollow,  and  they  drag 
themselves  home  at  evening  to  catch  a  nap  until  the  ball  begins, 
or  to  dine  and  smoke  at  their  club,  and  be  very  manly  with 
punches, and  coarse  stories ;  and  then  to  rush  into  hot  and  glit- 
tering rooms,  and  seize  very  decollete  girls  closely  around  the 
waist,  and  dash  with  them  around  an  area  of  stretched.  Hnen, 
saying,  in  the  panting  pauses,  "  How  very  hot  it  is !  "  "  How 
very  pretty  Miss  Podge  looks!"  "What  a  good  redowa!" 
"Are  you  going  to  Mrs.  Potiphar's?  " 

/  Is  this  the  assembled  flower  of  manhood  and  womanhood, 
called  "  best  society,"  and  to  see  whidi  is  so  envied  a  privilege? 
If  such  are  the  elements,  can  we  be  long  in  arriving  at  the  pres- 
ent state  and  necessary  future  condition  of  parties  ? 

"  Vanity  Fair  "  is  peculiarly  a  picture  of  modern  society.  It 
aims  at  English  follies,  but  its  mark  is  universal,  as  the  madness 
is.  It  is  called  a  satire,  but,  after  much  diligent  reading,  we 
cannot  discover  the  satire.  A  state  of  society  not  at  all  superior 
to  that  of  "  Vanity  Fair  "  is  not  unknown  to  our  experience ; 
and,  unless  truth-telling  be  satire;  unless  the  most  tragically 
real  portraiture  be  satire ;  unless  scalding  tears  of  sorrow,  and 
the  bitter  regret  of  a  manly  mind  over  the  miserable  spectacle 
of  artificiality,  wasted  powers,  misdirected  energies,  and  lost 
opportunities,  be  satirical,  we  do  not  find  satire  in  that  sad  story. 
The  reader  closes  it  with  a  grief  beyond  tears.  It  leaves  a 
vague  apprehension  in  the  mind,  as  if  we  should  suspect  the  air 
to  be  poisoned.  It  suggests  the  terrible  thought  of  the  en- 
feebling of  moral  power,  and  the  deterioration  of  noble  char- 
acter, as  a  necessary  consequence  of  contact  with  "  society." 
Every  man  looks  suddenly  and  sharply  around  him,  and  accosts 
himself  and  his  neighbors,  to  ascertain  if  they  are  all  parties 
to  this  corruption.  Sentimental  youths  and  maidens,  upon  vel- 
vet sofas,  or  in  calf-bound  libraries,  resolve  that  it  is  an  insult 
to  human  nature — are  sure  that  their  velvet  and  calf-bound 


46o  CURTIS 

friends  are  not  like  the  dramatis  personce  of  "  Vanity  Fair,"  and 
that  the  drama  is  therefore  hideous  and  unreal.  They  should 
remember,  what  they  uniformly  and  universally  forget,  that  we 
are  not  invited,  upon  the  rising  of  the  curtain,  to  behold  a  cos- 
morama,  or  picture  of  the  world,  but  a  representation  of  that 
part  of  it  called  Vanity  Fair.  What  its  just  limits  are — how 
far  its  poisonous  purlieus  reach — how  much  of  the  world's  air 
is  tainted  by  it,  are  questions  which  every  thoughtful  man  will 
ask  himself,  with  a  shudder,  and  look  sadly  around,  to  answer. 
If  the  sentimental  objectors  rally  again  to  the  charge,  and  de- 
clare that  if  we  wish  to  improve  the  world  its  virtuous  ambi- 
tion must  be  piqued  and  stimulated  by  making  the  shining 
heights  of  "  the  ideal "  more  radiant ;  we  reply,  that  none  shall 
surpass  us  in  honoring  the  men  whose  creations  of  beauty  in- 
spire and  instruct  mankind.  But  if  they  benefit  the  world,  it  is 
no  less  true  that  a  vivid  apprehension  of  the  depths  into  which 
we  are  sunken  or  may  sink  nerves  the  soul's  courage  quite  as 
much  as  the  alluring  mirage  of  the  happy  heights  we  may  at- 
tain. "  To  hold  the  mirror  up  to  nature  "  is  still  the  most  po- 
tent method  of  shaming  sin  and  strengthening  virtue. 

If  ^^  Vanity  Fair"  be  a  satire,  what  novel  of  society  is  not? 
Are  "  Vivian  Grey,"  and  "  Pelham,"  and  the  long  catalogue  of 
books  illustrating  English,  or  the  host  of  Balzacs,  Sands,  Sues, 
and  Dumas,  that  paint  French  society,  less  satires?  Nay,  if 
you  should  catch  any  dandy  in  Broadway,  or  in  Pall  Mall,  or 
upon  the  Boulevards,  this  very  morning,  and  write  a  coldly  true 
history  of  his  life  and  actions,  his  doings  and  undoings,  would 
it  not  be  the  most  scathing  and  tremendous  satire  ? — if  by  satire 
you  mean  the  consuming  melancholy  of  the  conviction  that  the 
life  of  that  pendant  to  a  mustache  is  an  insult  to  the  possible 
life  of  a  man. 

We  have  read  of  a  hypocrisy  so  thorough  that  it  was  sur- 
prised you  should  think  it  hypocritical:  and  we  have  bitterly 
thought  of  the  saying  when  hearing  one  mother  say  of  another 
mother's  child,  that  she  had  "  made  a  good  match,"  because  the 
girl  was  betrothed  to  a  stupid  boy  whose  father  was  rich.    The 
;     remark  was  the  key  of  our  social  feeling.' 
—-/--'■      Let  us  look  at  it  a  little,  and,  first  of  all,  letthe  reader  con^ 
/        sidcrthe'crttTcism,  arid  not  the  critic.     We  may  like  very  well, 
/  in  our  individual  capacity,  to  partake  of  the  delicacies  prepared 


"OUR  BEST  SOCIETY"  461 

by  our  hostess's  chef f  we  may  not  be  averse  to  pate  and  myriad 
objets  de  gout,  and  if  you  caught  us  in  a  corner  at  the  next  ball, 
putting  away  a  fair  share  of  dinde  aux  truffes,  we  know  you 
would  have  at  us  in  a  tone  of  great  moral  indignation,  and  wish 
to  know  why  we  sneaked  into  great  houses,  eating  good  sup- 
pers, and  drinking  choice  wines,  and  then  went  away  with  an 
indigestion,  to  write  dyspeptic  disgusts  at  society. 

We  might  reply  that  it  is  necessary  to  know  something  of  a 
subject  before  writing  about  it,  and  that  if  a  man  wished  to 
describe  the  habits  of  South  Sea  Islanders  it  is  useless  to  go  to 
Greenland;  we  might  also  confess  a  partiality  for  pate,  and  a 
tenderness  for  truffes,  and  acknowledge  that,  considering  our     \ 
single  absence  would  not  put  down  extravagant,  pompous  par-      I 
ties,  we  were  not  strong  enough  to  let  the  morsels  drop  into    / 
unappreciating  mouths ;  or  we  might  say,  that  if  a  man  invited    ^ 
us  to  see  his  new  house,  it  would  not  be  ungracious  nor  insult- 
ing to  his  hospitality,  to  point  out  whatever  weak  parts  we 
might  detect  in  it,  nor  to  declare  our  candid  conviction,  that  it 
was  built  upon  wrong  principles  and  could  not  stand.      He 
might  believe  us  if  we  had  been  in  the  house,  but  he  certainly  j 
would  not  if  we  had  never  seen  it.     Nor  would  it  be  a  very  wise 
reply  upon  his  part  that  we  might  build  a  better  if  we  didn't 
like  that.     We  are  not  fond  of  David's  pictures,  but  we  certainly 
could  never  paint  half  so  well ;  nor  of  Pope's  poetry,  but  pos- 
terity will  never  hear  of  our  verses.     Criticism  is  not  construc- 
tion, it  is  observation.     If  we  could  surpass  in  its  own  way 
everything  which  displeased  us,  we  should  make  short  work 
of  it,  and  instead  of  showing  what  fatal  blemishes  deform  our 
present  society,  we  should  present  a  specimen  of  perfection, 
directly.  . 

We  went  to  the  brilliant  ball.  There  was  too  much  of  every-  -^ 
thing — too  much  light,  and  eating,  and  drinking,  and  dancing, 
and  flirting,  and  dressing,  and  feigning,  and  smirking,  and 
much  too  many  people.  Good  taste  insists  first  upon  fitness. 
But  why  had  Mrs.  Potiphar  given  this  ball  ?  We  inquired  in- 
dustriously, and  learned  it  was  because  she  did  not  give  one 
last  year.  Is  it  then  essential  to  do  this  thing  biennially?  in- 
quired we  with  some  trepidation.  "  Certainly,"  was  the  bland 
reply,  "  or  society  will  forget  you."  Everybody  was  unhappy 
at  Mrs.  Potiphar's,  save  a  few  girls  and  boys,  who  danced  vio- 


462  CURTIS 

lently  ajl  the  evening.  Those  who  did  not  dance  walked  up  and 
down  the  rooms  as  well  as  they  could,  sc^ue^zing  by  non-dancing 
ladies,  caixsing -them  to  swear  in  their  hearts  as  the  brusque 
broadcloth  carried  away  the  light  outworks  of  gauze  and  gossa- 
mer.) The  dowagers,  ranged  in  solid  phalanx,  occupied  all  the 
chairs  and  sofas  against  the  wall,  and  fanned  themselves  until 
supper-time,  looking  at  each  other's  diamonds,  and  critcising 
the  toilettes  of  the  younger  ladies,  each  -narrowly  watching  her 
peculiar  Polly  Jane,  that  she  did  not  betray  too  much  interest 
in  any  man  who  was  not  of  a  certain  fortune.  /It  is  the  cold, 
vulgar  truth,  madam,  nor  are  we  in  the  slightest  degree  exag- 
gerating.) Elderly  gentlemen,  twisting  single  gloves  in  a  very 
wretched  jnanner,  came  up  and  bowed/ to  the  dowagers,  and 
smirked,  and  said  it  was  a  pleasant  party,  and  a  handsome 
house,  and  then  clutched  their  hands  behind  them,  and  walked 
miserably  away,  looking  as  affable  as  possible.  (And  the  dow- 
agers made  a  little  fun  of  tlie  elderly  gentlemen,  among  them- 
selv-e§j  as  they  walked  aiwaiyj 

Then  came  the  younger  non-dancing  men — a  class  of  the 
community  who  wear  black  cravats  and  waistcoats,  and  thrust 
their  thumbs  and  forefingers  in  their  waistcoat-pockets,  and  are 
called  "  talking  men."  Some  of  them  are  literary,  and  affect 
the  philosopher ;  have,  perhaps,  written  a  book  or  two,  and  are 
a  small  species  of  lion  to  very  young  ladies.  Some  are  of  the 
blase  kind — men  who  affect  the  extremest  elegance,  and  are 
reputed  "  so  aristocratic,"  and  who  care  for  nothing  in  particu- 
lar, but  wish  they  had  not  been  born  gentlemen,  in  which  case 
they  might  have  escaped  ennui.  These  gentlemen  stand  with 
hat  in  hand,  and  their  coats  and  trousers  are  unexceptionable. 
j|'(They  are  the  "  so  gentlemanly  "  persons  of  whom  one  hears  a 
Igreat  deal,  but  which  seems  to  mean  nothing  but  cleanliness) 
Wivian  Grey  and  Pelham  are  the  models  of  their  ambition,  and 
they  succeed  in  being  Pendennis.  They  enjoy  the  reputation 
of  being  "very  clever,"  and  'Wery  talented  fellows,"  and 
"  smart  chaps  " ;  but  they  refrain  from  proving  what  is  so  gen- 
erously conceded.  They  are  often  men  of  a  certain  cultivation. 
They  have  travelled,  many  of  them — spending  a  year  or  two  in 
Paris  and  a  month  or  two  in  the  rest  of  Europe.  Consequently 
they  endure  society  at  home,  with  a  smile,  and  a  shrug,  and  a 
graceful  superciliousness,  which  is^-verjuengaging.     They  are 


"OUR  BEST  SOCIETY"  463 

perfectly  at  home,  and  they  rather  despise  Young  America, 
which,  in  the  next  room,  is  dihgently  earning  its  invitation. 
They  prefer  to  hover  about  the  ladies  who  did  not  come  out  this\ 
season,  but  are  a  little  used  to  the  world,  with  whom  they  are  J 
upon  most  friendly  terms,  and  they  criticise  together,  veiV 
freely,  all  the  great  events  in  the  great  world  of  fashion. 

These  elegant  Pendennises  we  saw  at  Mrs.  Potiphar's,  but 
not  without  a  sadness  which  can  hardly  be  explained.  They 
had  been  boys  once,  all  of  them,  fresh  and  frank-hearted,  and 
full  of  a  noble  ambition.  They  had  read  and  pondered  the  his- 
tories of  great  men;  hawL-thejuxesoived,-  and  struggled,  and 
achieved.  In  the  pure  portraiture  of  genius,  they  had  loved 
and  honored  noble  women,  and  each  young  heart  was  sworn  to 
truth  and  the  service  of  beauty.  Those  feelings  were  chivalric 
and  fair.  Those  boyish  instincts  clung  to  whatever  was  lovely, 
and  rejected  the  specious  snare,  however  graceful  and  elegant. 
They  sailed,  new  knights,  upon  that  old  and  endless  crusade 
against  hypocrisy  and  the  devil,  and  they  were  lost  in  the  luxury 
of  Corinth,  nor  longer  seek  the  difficult  shores  beyond.  A 
present  smile  was  worth  a  future  laurel.  The  ease  of  the  mo- 
ment was  worth  immortal  tranquillity.  They  renounced  the 
stern  worship  of  the  unknown  God,  and  acknowledged  the  dei- 
ties of  Athens.  But  the  seal  of  their  shame  is  their  own  smile 
at  their  early  dreams,  and  the  high  hopes  of  their  boyhood,  their 
sneering  ipfidelity  of  simplicity,  their  scepticism  of  motives  and 
of  men.  jYouths,  whose  younger  years  were  fervid  with  the 
resolution  to  strike  and  win,  to  deserve,  at  least,  a  gentle  re- 
membrance, if  not  a  dazzling  fame,  are  content  to  eat,  and  drink, 
and  sleep  well ;  to  go  to  the  opera  and  all  the  balls ;  to  be  known 
as  "  gentlemanly,"  and  "  aristocratic,"  and  "  dangerous,"  and 
"  elegant" ;  to  cherish  a  luxurious  and  enervating  indolence,  and 
to  "  succeed,"  upon  the  cheap  reputation  of  having  been  "  fast  " 
in -Paris.  The  end  of  such  men  is  evident  enough  from  the  be- 
ginning. They  are  snuffed  out  by  a  "  great  match,"  and  become 
an  appendage  to  a  rich  woman ;  or  they  dwindle  off  into  old 
roues,  men  of  the  world  in  sad  earnest,  and  not  with  elegant 
affectation,  hlase;  and  as  they  began  Arthur  Pendennises,  so 
they  end  the  Major.  But,  believe  it,  that  old  fossil  heart  is 
Wrung  sometimes  by  a  mortal  pang,  as  it  remembers  those 
^uandered  opportunities  and  that  lost  life. 


/ 


464  CURTIS 

From  these  groups  we  passed  into  the  dancing-room.  We 
have  seen  dancing  in  other  countries,  and  dressing.  We  have 
certainly  never  seen  gentlemen  dance  so  easily,  gracefully,  and 
well,  as  the  American.  But  the  style  of  dancing,  in  its  whirl, 
its  rush,  its  fury,  is  only  equalled  by  that  of  the  masked  balls 

the  French  opera,^  and  the  balls  at  the  Salle  Valentino,  the 
Jardin  Mabille,  the  Chateau  Rouge,  and  Qihef- favorite  resorts 
of  Parisian  grisettes  and  lorettes.  We  saw  a  few  young  men 
looking  upon  the  dance  very  soberly,  and,  upon  inquiry,  learned 
that  they  were  engaged  to  certain  ladies  of  the  corps  de  ballet. 
Nor  did  we  wonder  that  the  spectacle  of  a  young  woman  whirl- 
ing in  a  decollete  state,  and  in  the  embrace  of  a  warm  youth 
around  a  heated  room,  induced  a  little  sobriety  upon  her  lover's 
face,  if  not  a  sadness  in  his  heart.  Amusement,  recreation,  en- 
joyment !  There  are  no  more  beautiful  things.  But  this  pro- 
:eeding  falls  under  another  head.  We  v/atched  the  various 
toilets  of  these  bounding  belles.  They  were  rich  and  tasteful. 
But  a  man  at  our  elbow,  of  experience  and  shrewd  observation, 
said,  with  a  sneer,  for  which  we  called  him  to  account :  *'  I  ob- 
serve that  American  ladies  are  so  rich  in  charms  that  they  are 
not  at  all  chaffy  of  them.  /It  is  certainly  generous  to  us  miser- 
able black  coats.  But,  do  you  know,  it  strikes  me  as  a  gen- 
erosity of  display  that  must  necessarily  leave  the  donor  poorer 
in  maidenly  feeling."  We  thought  ourselves  cynical,  but  this 
was  intolerable;  and  in  a  very  crisp  manner  we  demanded  an 
apology^ 

"  Why,"  responded  our  friend  with  more  of  sadness  than  of 
satire  in  his  tone,  "  why  are  you  so  exasperated  ?  Look  at  this 
scene !  Consider  that  this  is,  really,  the  life  of  these  girls.  This 
is  what  they  '  come  out '  for.  This  is  the  end  of  their  ambition. 
They  think  of  it,  dream  of  it,  long  for  it.  Is  it  amusement? 
Yes,  to  a  few,  possibly.  But  listen  and  gather,  if  you  can,  from 
their  remarks  (when  they  make  any),  that  they  fiave  any 
thought  beyond  this,  and  going  to  church  very  rigidly  on  Sun- 
day. The  vigor  of  polking  and  church-going  are  proportioned ; 
as  is  the  one  so  is  the  other.  My  young  friend,  I  am  no  ascetic, 
and  do  not  suppose  a  man  is  damned  because  he  dances.  But 
life  is  not  a  ball  (more's  the  pity,  truly,  for  these  butterflies), 
nor  is  its  sole  duty  and  delight,  dancing.  When  I  consider  this 
spectacle — when  I  remember  what  a  noble  and  beautiful  woman 


"OUR  BEST  SOCIETY"  465 

is,  what  a  manly  man — when  I  reel,  dazzled  by  this  glare, 
drunken  by  these  perfumes,  confused  by  this  alluring  music, 
and  reflect  upon  the  enormous  sums  wasted  in  a  pompous  pro- 
fusion that  delights  no  one — when  I  look  around  upon  all  this 
rampant^vulgarity  in  tinsel  and  Brussels  lace,  and  think  how 
fortunes  go,  how  men  struggle  and  lose  the  bloom  of  their  hon- 
esty, how  women  hide  in  a  smiling  pretence,  and  eye  with  caustic 
glances  their  neighbor's  newer  house,  diamonds,  or  porcelain, 
and  observe  their  daughters,  such  as  these- — why,  I  tremble,  and 
tremble,  and  this  scene  to-night,  every  *  crack 'ball  this  winter, 
will  be,  not  the  pleasant  society  of  men  and  women,  but — even 
in  this  young  country — an  orgie  such  as  rotting  Corinth  saw, 
a  frenzied  festival  of  Rome  in  its  decadence." 

There  was  a  sober  truth  in  this  bitterness,  and  we  turned  away 
to  escape  the  sombre  thought  of  the  moment.  Addressing  one 
of  the  panting  houris  who  stood  melting  in  a  window,  we  spoke 
(and  confess  how  absurdly)  of  the  Diisseldorf  Gallery.  It  was 
merely  to  avoid  saying  how  warm  the  room  was,  and  how  pleas- 
ant the  party  was,  facts  upon  which  we  had  already  enlarged. 
"  Yes,  they  are  pretty  pictures ;  but,  la !  how  long  it  must  have 
taken  Mr.  Diisseldorf  to  paint  them  all,"  was  the  reply. 

By  the  Farnesian  Hercules!  no  Roman  sylph  in  her  city's 
decline  would  ever  have  called  the  sun-god,  Mr.  Apollo.  We 
hope  that  houri  melted  entirely  away  in  the  window;  but  we 
certainly  did  not  stay  to  see. 

Passing  out  toward  the  supper-room  we  encountered  two 
young  men.  "  What,  Hal,"  said  one,  "  you  at  Mrs.  Poti- 
phar's  ?  "  It  seems  that  Hal  was  a  sprig  of  one  of  the  "  old 
families."  "  Well,  Joe,"  said  Hal,  a  little  confused,  "  it  is  a 
little  strange.  The  fact  is  I  didn't  mean  to  be  here,  but  I  con- 
cluded to  compromise  by  coming,  and  not  being  introduced  to 
the  host."  Hal  could  come,  eat  Potiphar's  supper,  drink  his 
wines,  spoil  his  carpets,  laugh  at  his  fashionable  struggles,  and 
affect  the  puppyism  of  a  foreign  lord,  because  he  disgraced  the 
name  of  a  man  who  had  done  some  service  somewhere,  while 
Potiphar  was  only  an  honest  man  who  made  a  fortune. 

The  supper-room  was  a  pleasant  place.  The  table  was  cov- 
ered with  a  chaos  of  supper.  Everything  sweet  and  rare,  and 
hot  and  cold,  solid  and  liquid,  was  there.  It  was  the  very 
apotheosis  of  gilt  gingerbread.  There  was  a  universal  rush 
30 


466  CURTIS 

and  struggle.  The  charge  of  the  guards  at  Waterloo  was  noth- 
ing to  it.  Jellies,  custard,  oyster-soup,  ice-cream,  wine  and 
water,  gushed,  in  profuse  cascades  over  transparent  precipices 
of  tulle,  muslin,  gauze,  silk,  and  satin.  Clumsy  boys  tumbled 
against  costly  dresses  and  smeared  them  with  preserves ;  when 
clean  plates  failed,  the  contents  of  plates  already  used  were 
quietly  *'  chucked  "  under  the  table — heel-taps  of  chatnpagne 
were  poured  into  the  oyster  tureens  or  overflowed  upon  plates 
to  clear  the  glasses — wine  of  all  kinds  flowed  in  torrents,  par- 
ticularly down  the  throats  of  very  young  men,  who  evinced 
their  manhood  by  becoming,  noisy,  troublesome,  and  disgust- 
ing, and  were  finally  either  led,  sick,  into  the  hat-room,  or  car- 
ried out  of  the  way,  drunk.  The  supper  over,  the  young  peo- 
ple, attended  by  their  matrons,  descended  to  the  dancing-room 
for  the  "  german."  This  is  a  dance  commencing  usually  at 
midnight  or  a  little  after,  and  continuing  indefinitely  toward 
daybreak.  The  young  people  were  attended  by  their  matrons, 
who  were  there  to  supervise  the  morals  and  manners  of  their 
charges.  To  secure  the  performance  of  this  duty,  the  young 
people  took  good  care  to  sit  where  the  matrons  could  not  see 
them,  nor  did  they,  by  any  chance,  look  toward  the  quarter  in 
which  the  matrons  sat.  In  that  quarter,  through  all  the  vary- 
ing mazes  of  the  prolonged  dance,  to  two  o'clock,  to  three,  to 
four,  sat  the  bediamonded  dowagers,  the  mothers,  the  matrons 
— against  nature,  against  common-sense.  They  babbled  with 
each  other,  they  drowsed,  they  dozed.  Their  fans  fell  listless 
into  their  laps.  In  the  adjoining  room,  out  of  the  waking 
sight,  even,  of  the  then  sleeping  mammas,  the  daughters  whirled 
in  the  close  embrace  of  partners  who  had  brought  down  bottles 
of  champagne  from  the  supper-room,  and  put  them  by  the  side 
of  their  chairs  for  occasional  refreshment  during  the  dance. 
The  dizzy  hours  staggered  by — "  Azalia,  you  must  come  now," 
had  been  already  said  a  dozen  times,  but  only  as  by  the  scribes. 
Finally  it  was  declared  with  authority.  Azalia  went — Amelia 
— Arabella.  The  rest  followed.  There  was  prolonged  cloak- 
ing, there  were  lingering  farewells.  A  few  papas  were  in  the 
supper-room,  sitting  among  the  debris  of  the  game.  A  few 
young  non-dancing  husbands  sat  beneath  gas  unnaturally 
bright,  reading  whatever  chance  book  was  at  hand,  and  think- 
ing of  the  young  child  at  home  waiting  for  mamma,  who  was 


"OUR  BEST  SOCIETY"  467 

dancing  the  "  german  "  below.  A  few  exhausted  matrons  sat 
in  the  robing-room,  tired,  sad,  wishing  Jane  would  come  up; 
assailed  at  intervals  by  a  vague  suspicion  that  it  was  not  quite 
worth  while;  wondering  how  it  was  they  used  to  have  such 
good  times  at  balls;  yawning,  and  looking  at  their  watches; 
while  the  regular  beat  of  the  music  below,  with  sardonic  sad- 
ness\^  continued.  At  last  Jane  came  up,  had  had  the  most  glori- 
ous time,  and  went  down  with  mamma  to  the  carriage,  and  so 
drove  home.  Even  the  last  Jane  went — the  last  noisy  youth 
was  expelled,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Potiphar,  having  duly  per- 
formed their  biennial  social  duty,  dismissed  the  music,  ordered 
the  servants  to  count  the  spoons,  and  an  hour  or  two  after  day- 
light wentjto  bed.     Enviable  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Potiphar! .„ _..._ 

We  are  now  prepared  for  the  great  moral  indignation  of  the 
friend  who  saw  us  eating  our  dinde  aux  triiffes  in  that  remark- 
able supper-room.  We  are  waiting  to  hear  him  say  in  the  most 
moderate  and  "  gentlemanly  "  manner  that  it  is  all  very  well  to 
select  flaws  and  present  them  as  specimens,  and  to  learn  from 
him,  possibly  with  indignant  publicity,  that  the  present  condi- 
tion of  parties  is  not  what  we  have  intimated.  Or,  in  his  quiet 
and  pointed  way,  he  may  smile  at  our  fiery  assault  upon  edged 
flounces  and  nugat  pyramids,  and  the  kingdom  of  Liliput  in 
general. 

Yet,  after  all,  and  despite  the  youths  who  are  led  out,  and 
carried  home,  or  who  stumble  through  the  "  german,"  this  is 
a  sober  matter.  My  friend  told  us  we  should  see  the  "  best 
society."  But  he  is  a  prodigious  wag.  Who  make  this  coun- 
try? From  whom  is  its  character  of  unparalleled  enterprise, 
heroism,  and  success  derived?  Who  have  given  it  its  place  in 
the  respect  and  the  fear  of  the  world  ?  Who,  annually,  recruit 
its  energies,  confirm  its  progress,  and  secure  its  triumph  ?  Who 
are  its  characteristic  children,  the  pith,  the  sinew,  the  bone,  of 
its  prosperity  ?  Who  found,  and  direct,  and  continue  its  mani- 
fold institutions  of  mercy  and  education?  Who  are,  essen- 
tially, Americans?  Indignant  friend,  these  classes,  whoever 
they  may  be,  are  the  "  best  society,"  because  they  alone  are  the 
representatives  of  its  character  and  cultivation.  They  are  the 
"  best  society  "  of  New  York,  of  Boston,  of  Baltimore,  of  St. 
Louis,  of  New  Orleans,  whether  they  live  upon  six  hundred  or 
sixty  thousand  dollars  a  year — whether  they  inhabit  princely 


468  CURTIS 

houses  in  fashionable  streets  (which  they  often  do),  or  not — 
whether  their  sons  have  graduated  at  Celarius's  and  the  Jardin 
Mabille,  or  have  never  been  out  of  their  father's  shops — whether 
they  have  "  air  "  and  "  style,"  and  are  "  so  gentlemanly,"  and 
"  so  aristocratic,"  or  not.  Your  shoemaker,  your  lawyer,  your 
butcher,  your  clergyman — if  they  are  simple  and  steady,  and, 
whether  rich  or  poor,  are  unseduced  by  the  sirens  of  extrava- 
gance and  ruinous  display — help  make  up  the  "  best  society." 
For  that  mystic  communion  is  not  composed  of  the  rich,  but  of 
the  worthy ;  and  is  "  best "  by  its  virtues,  and  not  by  its  vices. 
When  Johnson,  Burke,  Goldsmith,  Garrick,  Reynolds,  and  their 
friends,  met  at  supper  in  Goldsmith's  rooms,  where  was  the 
"  best  society  "  in  England  ?  When  George  IV  outraged  hu- 
manity and  decency  in  his  treatment  of  Queen  Caroline,  who 
was  the  first  scoundrel  in  Europe  ? 

Pause  yet  a  moment,  indignant  friend.  Whose  habits  and 
principles  would  ruin  this  country  as  rapidly  as  it  has  been 
made?  Who  are  enamored  of  a  puerile  imitation  of  foreign 
splendors?  Who  strenuously  endeavor  to  graft  the  question- 
able points  of  Parisian  society  upon  our  own  ?  Who  pass  a  few 
years  in  Europe  and  return  sceptical  of  republicanism  and  hu- 
man improvement,  longing  and  sighing  for  more  sharply  em- 
phasized social  distinctions?  Who  squander,  with  profuse 
recklessness,  the  hard-earned  fortunes  of  their  sires?  Who 
diligently  devote  their  time  to  nothing,  foolishly  and  wrongly 
supposing  that  a  young  English  nobleman  has  nothing  to  do  ? 
Who,  in  fine,  evince  by  their  collective  conduct,  that  they  regard 
their  Americanism  as  a  misfortune,  and  are  so  the  most  deadly 
enemies  of  their  country  ?  None  but  what  our  wag  facetiously 
termed  "  the  best  society." 

If  the  reader  doubts,  let  him  consider  its  practical  results  in 
any  great  emporiums  of  "  best  society."  Marriage  is  there  re- 
garded as  a  luxury,  too  expensive  for  any  but  the  sons  of  rich 
men,  or  fortunate  young  men.  We  once  heard  an  eminent 
divine  assert,  and  only  half  in  sport,  that  the  rate  of  living  was 
advancing  so  incredibly,  that  weddings  in  his  experience  were 
perceptibly  diminishing.  The  reasons  might  have  been  many 
and  various.  But  we  all  acknowledge  the  fact.  On  the  other 
hand  and  about  the  same  time,  a  lovely  damsel  (ah  !  Clorinda !) 
whose  father  was  not  wealthy,  who  had  no  prospective  means 


"OUR  BEST  SOCIETY"  469 

of  support,  who  could  do  nothing  but  polka  to  perfection,  who 
literally  knew  almost  nothing,  and  who  constantly  shocked  every 
fairly  intelligent  person  by  the  glaring  ignorance  betrayed  in 
her  remarks,  informed  a  friend  at  one  of  the  Saratoga  balls, 
whither  he  had  made  haste  to  meet  "the  best  society,"  that 
there  were  "  not  more  than  three  good  matches  in  society." 
La  dame  aux  camelias,  Marie  Duplessis,  was  to  our  fancy  a 
much  more  feminine,  and  admirable,  and  moral,  and  human 
person,  than  the  adored  Clorinda.  And  yet  what  she  said  was 
the  legitimate  result  of  the  state  of  our  fashionable  society.  It 
worships  wealth,  and  the  pomp  which  wealth  can  purchase, 
more  than  virtue,  genius,  or  beauty.  We  may  be  told  that  it 
has  always  been  so  in  every  country,  and  that  the  fine  society  of 
all  lands  is  as  profuse  and  flashy  as  our  own.  We  deny  it,  flatly. 
Neither  English,  nor  French,  nor  Italian,  nor  German  society, 
is  so  unspeakably  barren  as  that  which  is  technically  called  ''  so- 
ciety "  here.  In  London,  and  Paris,  and  Vienna,  and  Rome, 
all  the  really  eminent  men  and  women  help  make  up  the  mass 
of  society.  A  party  is  not  a  mere  ball,  but  it  is  a  congress  of 
the  wit,  beauty,  and  fame  of  the  capital.  It  is  worth  while  to 
dress  if  you  shall  meet  Macaulay,  or  Hallam,  or  Guizot,  or 
Thiers,  or  Landseer,  or  Delaroche — Mrs.  Norton,  the  Misses 
Berry,  Madame  Recamier,  and  all  the  brilliant  women  and 
famous  foreigners.  But  w^hy  should  we  desert  the  pleasant 
pages  of  those  men,  and  the  recorded  gossip  of  those  women, 
to  be  squeezed  flat  against  a  wall  while  young  Doughface  pours 
oyster-gravy  down  our  shirt-front,  and  Caroline  Pettitoes  won- 
ders at  "  Mr.  Diisseldorf  s  "  industry  ? 

If  intelligent  people  decline  to  go,  you  justly  remark,  it  is 
their  own  fault.  Yes,  but  if  they  stay  away,  it  is  very  certainly 
their  great  gain.  The  elderly  people  are  always  neglected  with 
us,  and  nothing  surprises  intelligent  strangers  more  than  the 
tyrannical  supremacy  of  Young  America.  But  we  are  not  sur- 
prised at  this  neglect.  How  can  we  be,  if  we  have  our  eyes 
open  ?  When  Caroline  Pettitoes  retreats  from  the  floor  to  the 
sofa,  and  instead  of  a  "  polker  "  figures  at  parties  as  a  matron, 
do  you  suppose  that  "  tough  old  Joes  "  like  ourselves  are  going 
to  desert  the  young  Caroline  upon  the  floor,  for  Madame  Petti- 
toes upon  the  sofa?  If  the  pretty  young  Caroline,  with  youth, 
health,  freshness,  a  fine,  budding  form,  and  wreathed  in  a  semi- 


470  CURTIS 

transparent  haze  of  flounced  and  flowered  gauze,  is  so  vapid 
that  we  prefer  to  accost  her  with  our  eyes  alone,  and  not  with 
our  tongues,  is  the  same  CaroHne  married  into  a  Madame  Petti- 
toes, and  fanning  herself  upon  a  sofa — no  longer  particularly- 
fresh,  nor  young,  nor  pretty,  and  no  longer  budding,  but  very 
fully  blown — likely  to  be  fascinating  in  conversation?  We 
cannot  wonder  that  the  whole  connection  of  Pettitoes,  when 
advanced  to  the  matron  state,  is  entirely  neglected.  Proper 
homage  to  age  we  can  all  pay  at  home,  to  our  parents  and  grand- 
parents. Proper  respect  for  some  persons  is  best  preserved  by 
avoiding  their  neighborhood. 

And  what,  think  you,  is  the  influence  of  this  extravagant  ex- 
pense and  senseless  show  upon  these  same  young  men  and 
women?  We  can  easily  discover.  It  saps  their  noble  ambi- 
tion, assails  their  health,  lowers  their  estimate  of  men,  and  their 
reverence  for  women,  cherishes  an  eager  and  aimless  rivalry, 
weakens  true  feeling,  wipes  away  the  bloom  of  true  modesty, 
and  induces  an  ennui,  a  satiety,  and  a  kind  of  dilettante  mis- 
anthropy, which  is  only  the  more  monstrous  because  it  is  un- 
doubtedly real.  You  shall  hear  young  men  of  intelligence  and 
cultivation,  to  whom  the  unprecedented  circumstances  of  this 
country  offer  opportunities  of  a  great  and  beneficent  career, 
complaining  that  they  were  bom  within  this  blighted  circle; 
regretting  that  they  were  not  bakers  and  tallow-chandlers,  and 
under  no  obligation  to  keep  up  appearances ;  deliberately  sur- 
rendering all  the  golden  possibilities  of  that  future  which  this 
country,  beyond  all  others,  holds  before  them ;  sighing  that  they 
are  not  rich  enough  to  marry  the  girls  they  love,  and  bitterly 
upbraiding  fortune  that  they  are  not  millionaires ;  suffering  the 
vigor  of  their  years  to  exhale  in  idle  wishes  and  pointless  re- 
grets ;  disgracing  their  manhood  by  lying  in  wait  behind  their 
"  so  gentlemanly  "  and  "  aristocratic  "  manners,  until  they  can 
pounce  upon  a  "  fortune  "  and  ensnare  an  heiress  into  matri- 
mony :  and  so,  having  dragged  their  gifts — their  horses  of  the 
sun — into  a  service  which  shames  out  of  them  all  their  native 
pride  and  power,  they  sink  in  the  mire;  and  their  peers  and 
emulators  exclaim  that  they  have  "  made  a  good  thing  of  it." 

Are  these  the  processes  by  which  a  noble  race  is  made  and 
perpetuated?  At  Mrs.  Potiphar's  we  heard  several  Penden- 
nises  longing  for  a  similar  luxury,  and  announcing  their  firm 


"OUR  BEST  SOCIETY"  471 

purpose  never  to  have  wives  nor  houses  until  they  could  have 
them  as  splendid  as  jewelled  Mrs.  Potiphar,  and  her  palace, 
thirty  feet  front.  Where  were  their  heads,  and  their  hearts, 
and  their  arms?  How  looks  this  craven  despondency,  before 
the  stern  virtues  of  the  ages  we  call  dark  ?  When  a  man  is  so 
voluntarily  imbecile  as  to  regret  he  is  not  rich,  if  that  is  what 
he  wants,  before  he  has  struck  a  blow  for  wealth ;  or  so  das- 
tardly as  to  renounce  the  prospect  of  love,  because  sitting  sigh- 
ing, in  velvet  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  he  does  not  see  his 
way  clear  to  ten  thousand  a  year :  when  young  women  coiffed 
a  merveille  of  unexceptionable  "  style,"  who,  with  or  without  a 
prospective  penny,  secretly  look  down  upon  honest  women  who 
struggle  for  a  livelihood,  like  noble  and  Christian  beings,  and, 
as  such,  are  rewarded ;  in  whose  society  a  man  must  forget  thfet 
he  has  ever  read,  thought,  or  felt ;  who  destroy  in  the  mind  the 
fair  ideal  of  women,  which  the  genius  of  art,  and  poetry,  and 
love,  their  inspirer  has  created ;  then,  it  seems  to  us,  it  is  high 
time  that  the  subject  should  be  regarded,  not  as  a  matter  of 
breaking  butterflies  upon  the  wheel,  but  as  a  sad  and  sober 
question,  in  whose  solution,  all  fathers  and  mothers,  and  the 
state  itself,  are  interested.  When  keen  observers,  and  men  of 
the  world,  from  Europe,  are  amazed  and  appalled  at  the  giddy 
whirl  and  frenzied  rush  of  our  society — a  society  singular  in 
history  for  the  exaggerated  prominence  it  assigns  to  wealth,  ir- 
respective of  the  talents  that  amassed  it,  they  and  their  pos- 
sessor being  usually  hustled  out  of  sight — is  it  not  quite  time 
to  ponder  a  little  upon  the  Court  of  Louis  XIV,  and  the  "  mer- 
rie  days  "  of  King  Charles  II  ?  Is  it  not  clear  that,  if  what 
our  good  wag,  with  caustic  irony,  called  "  best  society,"  were 
really  such,  every  thoughtful  man  would  read  upon  Mrs.  Poti- 
phar's  softly  tinted  walls  the  terrible  "  mene,  mene  "  of  an  im- 
minent destruction. 

Venice  in  her  purple  prime  of  luxury,  when  the  famous  law 
was  passed  making  all  gondolas  black,  that  the  nobles  should 
not  squander  fortunes  upon  them,  was  not  more  luxurious  than 
New  York  to-day.  Our  hotels  have  a  superficial  splendor,  de- 
rived from  a  profusion  of  gilt  and  paint,  wood  and  damask. 
Yet,  in  not  one  of  them  can  the  traveller  be  so  quietly  comfort- 
able as  in  an  English  inn,  and  nowhere  in  New  York  can  a 
stranger  procure  a  dinner,  at  once  so  neat  and  elegant,  and  eco- 


<^ 


472  CURTIS 

nomical,  as  at  scores  of  cafes  in  Paris.  The  fever  of  display 
has  consumed  comfort.  A  gondola  plated  with  gold  was  no 
easier  than  a  black  wooden  one.  We  could  well  spare  a  little 
gilt  upon  the  walls  for  more  cleanliness  upon  the  public  table; 
nor  is  it  worth  while  to  cover  the  walls  with  mirrors  to  reflect 
a  want  of  comfort.  One  prefers  a  wooden  bench  to  a  greasy 
velvet  cushion,  and  a  sanded  floor  to  a  soiled  and  threadbare 
carpet.  An  insipid  uniformity  is  the  Procrustes-bed  upon 
which  "  society  "  is  stretched.  Every  new  house  is  the  counter- 
part of  every  other,  with  the  exception  of  more  gilt,  if  the  owner 
can  afford  it.  The  interior  arrangement,  instead  of  being  char- 
acteristic, instead  of  revealing  something  of  the  tastes  and  feel- 
ings of  the  owner,  is  rigorously  conformed  to  every  other  in- 
terior. The  same  hollow  and  tame  complaisance  rules  in  the 
intercourse  of  society.  Who  dares  say  precisely  what  he  thinks 
upon  a  great  topic  ?  What  youth  ventures  to  say  sharp  things, 
of  slavery,  for  instance,  at  a  polite  dinner-table?  What  girl 
dares  wear  curls,  when  Martelle  prescribes  puffs  or  bandeaux? 
What  specimen  of  Young  America  dares  have  his  trousers  loose 
or  wear  straps  to  them  ?  We  want  individuality,  heroism,  and, 
if  necessary,  an  uncompromising  persistence  in  difference. 

This  is  the  present  state  of  parties.  They  are  wildly  extrava- 
gant, full  of  senseless  display ;  they  are  avoided  by  the  pleasant 
and  intelligent,  and  swarm  with  reckless  regiments  of  "  Brown*s 
men.'^  The  ends  of  the  earth  contribute  their  choicest  products 
to  the  supper,  and  there  is  everything  that  wealth  can  purchase, 
and  all  the  specious  splendor  that  thirty  feet  front  can  afford. 
They  are  hot,  and  crowded,  and  glaring.  There  is  a  little  weak 
scandal,  venomous,  not  witty,  and  a  stream  of  weary  platitude, 
mortifying  to  every  sensible  person.  Will  any  of  our  Penden- 
nis  friends  intermit  their  indignation  for  a  moment,  and  con- 
sider how  many  good  things  they  have  said  or  heard  during  the 
season  ?  If  Mr.  Potiphar's  eyes  should  chance  to  fall  here,  will 
he  reckon  the  amount  of  satisfaction  and  enjoyment  he  derived 
from  Mrs.  Potiphar's  ball,  and  will  that  lady  candidly  confess 
what  she  gained  from  it  beside  weariness  and  disgust  ?  What 
eloquent  sermons  we  remember  to  have  heard  in  which  the  sins 
and  sinners  of  Babylon,  Jericho,  and  Gomorrah  were  scathed 
with  holy  indignation.  The  cloth  is  very  hard  upon  Cain,  and 
completely  routs  the  erring  kings  of  Judah.     The  Spanish  In- 


**OUR  BEST  SOCIETY"  473 

quisition,  too,  gets  frightful  knocks,  and  there  is  much  eloquent 
exhortation  to  preach  the  gospel  in  the  interior  of  Siam.  Let 
it  be  preached  there  and  God  speed  the  Word.  But  also  let  us 
have  a  text  or  two  in  Broadway  and  the  Avenue. 

The  best  sermon  ever  preached  upon  society,  within  our 
knowledge,  is  "  Vanity  Fair."  Is  the  spirit  of  that  story  less 
true  of  New  York  than  of  London?  Probably  we  never  see 
Amelia  at  our  parties,  nor  Lieutenant  George  Osborne,  nor  good 
gawky  Dobbin,  nor  Mrs.  Rebecca  Sharp  Crawley,  nor  old 
Steyne.  We  are  very  much  pained,  of  course,  that  any  author 
should  take  such  dreary  views  of  human  nature.  We,  for  our 
parts,  all  go  to  Mrs.  Potiphar's  to  refresh  our  faith  in  men  and 
women.  Generosity,  amiability,  a  catholic  charity,  simplicity, 
taste,  sense,  high  cultivation,  and  intelligence,  distinguish  our 
parties.  The  statesman  seeks  their  stimulating  influence;  the 
literary  man,  after  the  day's  labor,  desires  the  repose  of  their 
elegant  conversation;  the  professional  man  and  the  merchant 
hurry  up  from  down  town  to  shuffle  off  the  coil  of  heavy  duty, 
and  forget  the  drudgery  of  life  in  the  agreeable  picture  of  its 
amenities  and  graces  presented  by  Mrs.  Potiphar's  ball.  Is 
this  account  of  the  matter,  or  "  Vanity  Fair,"  the  satire  ?  What 
are  the  prospects  of  any  society  of  which  that  tale  is  the  true 
history  ? 

There  is  a  picture  in  the  Luxembourg  gallery  at  Paris,  "  The 
Decadence  of  the  Romans,"  which  made  the  fame  and  fortune 
of  Couture,  the  painter.  It  represents  an  orgie  in  the  court  of 
a  temple,  during  the  last  days  of  Rome.  A  swarm  of  revellers 
occupy  the  middle  of  the  picture,  wreathed  in  elaborate  intricacy 
of  luxurious  posture,  men  and  women  intermingled,  their  faces, 
in  which  the  old  Roman  fire  scarcely  flickers,  brutalized  with 
excess  of  every  kind ;  their  heads  of  dishevelled  hair  bound  with 
coronals  of  leaves,  while,  from  goblets  of  an  antique  grace,  they 
drain  the  fiery  torrent  which  is  destroying  them.  Around  the 
bacchanalian  feast  stand,  lofty  upon  pedestals,  the  statues  of 
old  Rome,  looking  with  marble  calmness  and  the  severity  of  a 
rebuke  beyond  words,  upon  the  revellers.  A  youth  of  boyish 
grace,  with  a  wreath  woven  in  his  tangled  hair,  and  with  red 
and  drowsy  eyes,  sits  listless  upon  one  pedestal,  while  upon  an- 
other stands  a  boy  insane  with  drunkenness,  and  proffering  a 
dripping  goblet  to  the  marble  mouth  of  the  statue.     In  the  cor- 


474  CURTIS 

ner  of  the  picture,  as  if  just  quitting  the  court— Rome  finally 
departing— is  a  group  of  Romans  with  care-worn  brows,  and 
hands  raised  to  their  faces  in  melancholy  meditation.  In  the 
foreground  of  the  picture,  which  is  painted  with  all  the  sump- 
tuous splendor  of  the  Venetian  art,  is  a  stately  vase,  around 
which  hangs  a  festoon  of  gorgeous  flowers,  its  end  dragging 
upon  the  pavement.  In  the  background,  between  the  columns, 
smiles  the  blue  sky  of  Italy — the  only  thing  Italian  not  deteri- 
orated by  time.  The  careful  student  of  this  picture,  if  he  have 
been  long  in  Paris,  is  some  day  startled  by  detecting,  especially 
in  the  faces  of  the  women  represented,  a  surprising  likeness  to 
the  women  of  Paris,  and  perceives,  with  a  thrill  of  dismay,  that 
the  models  for  this  picture  of  decadent  human  nature  are  fur- 
nished by  the  very  city  in  which  he  lives. 


i^K.    i 


YC   14309 


